


No Power of Mind

by ab_initio



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mental Hospital AU, Sherlock sees dead people, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-02-08 19:01:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1952523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ab_initio/pseuds/ab_initio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Monday, it's the Woman. Tuesday brings Henry Knight. Wednesday is Magnussen. Greg is Thursday followed by Moriarty on Friday. Sherlock see dead people in his palace of white.<br/>When Mycroft hires Doctor John Watson to take care of Sherlock, Sherlock wonders how long this doctor will last. As time passes, the doctor-patient relationship drifts away and Sherlock's visions begin to take control. As his sanity slips away, John tries to hold on and bring Sherlock back from the depths of his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

On Monday, it's the Woman. She walks around his room in beautiful, and sinuously skimpy, outfits. Some Mondays she would show up bare, only armed with her ridding crop. When she is feeling particularly playful, she pushes Sherlock down onto his cot and litters his cheekbones with kisses from the ridding crop, springs creaking to support the weight of the two of them. She is more clever than any woman, and man, Sherlock had made acquaintance with. The Woman would sit on the white wash seats and describe scenario after scenario, waiting for Sherlock to solve them. Hours would pass by, mysteries told with only Sherlock, the Woman, and the alabaster walls to hear. And as the sky would darken behind the one window in the room, a light bulb flickered to life to dimly illuminate the space. The Woman would always lean over as he lay in his cot as the Monday began to fade away to make way for Tuesday and whisper, "We should get dinner sometime."

  And then she would vanish, leaving Sherlock alone for a few seconds before Tuesday arrived, Henry Knight.

  That was his week. He would spend his days talking to his visions, only pausing to eat and sleep and that was a rare occurrence. Monday would be Irene Adler, or as he called her, the Woman. Tuesday was Henry Knight, a boy who is scared by the memory of the death of his father and the hounds that used to chase him in his dreams. Wednesday brought Magnussen rattling off the governmental secrets and 'pressure points'  that used to make him a powerful man. Gregory Lestrade came on Thursdays. His hair permanently stuck in the phase of graying, some dark brown hair still visible. He lays on the ground and speaks of cold cases that Sherlock helps him solve. When Sherlock asks him of something outside homicide, beer, rugby, or 'The Clash' he would chuckle and say, "Not my division." On particularly bad days, typically the rainy ones, he would sit under the window and mumble to himself. A few words Sherlock would understand, "Sorry... I still love... do you?... Mycroft..."

  Sherlock never liked it when it rained on Thursday.

  He also hated Fridays, when chlorine and expensive cologne clogged his nostrils and Moriarty would come and, as Jim would say, 'play'. Moriarty would brag about his worldwide crime web, how no one would get to him, and no one ever will. He would prance around the room and ask Sherlock to come with him and explore the world and become so powerful that not even a bullet to the head would kill him. Which was completely untrue. A bullet to the head  would kill any brain activity, therefore killing the person, in a fraction of a second.

  And Jim said that he was like Sherlock. Not with that amount of stupidity.

  The weekend brought the dog. He had named him Redbeard after a dog he used to own when he was younger. Sherlock would run his hand through his dusty red fur as the doctors would poke and prod at him.

  "How do you feel?" one would always ask. Light brown hair tied to the side. Three children, single mother, stressful day, expecting another soon.

  "I feel fine." He adds a smile to the end of his sentence as an afterthought.

  "Are you seeing anything? Any unusual dreams or blurs in vision?" another would ask like clockwork. His brown hair slicked back away from his greasy face. Slept his way through college, bisexual, sleeping with his assistant (the one with the dark curly hair) even though he is married, wearing two brands of deodorant (body odor problem).

  "You are blocking up most of the view with your massive ego, but no. Nothing unusual, like always." The brunette nurse covers her small giggle with a hand and the doctor shoots a glare at her. The dog barked beside Sherlock, though no one but Sherlock could see or hear him.

  "No need for the attitude, Holmes," The doctor continued his examination. "Remember, I am the one writing your psyche report based off my observations."

  "And?"

  "You aren't acting social, another bad tick on the eval, another year you stay in this room." The doctor stepped back from Sherlock with a particularly smug look on his face.

  "Then your report is biased. Lucky you have a competent nurse as witness to your stupidity. Or are you going to blackmail her just the last nurse you had?" The doctor was fuming at this point, his hands balled by his side and face crimson, "And the longer I stay here, the longer you get to be with me." Sherlock winked before the doctor turned to storm out of the room, but Sherlock wasn't done.

  "How long is your wife away, Anderson?"

  Anderson turns, "What are you talking about?"

  "Oh nothing, I just realized that you are wearing men's deodorant."

  "Of course, I am a man."

  "But so was Nurse Donavan this morning. Interesting. No problem, she probably just came around and scrubbed your floors as a favor judging by the state of her knees."

  Anderson turned redder than he already was and stomped out of the room yelling abuse.

  Redbeard barked from where he sat next to Sherlock. He ran a through his fur to soothe his nerves.

  "Real people are so boring."

\---

  Sunday is when Mycroft visits.

  Sherlock loathes Sundays.

  Sherlock hates every day that he spends in his prison of blinding white, but the moment you add his dull, stupid, senseless, naive, unintelligent, thick-headed (and thick-waist), dimwitted,  gay (not that there was any problem with that, it was just another thing to add to the list of problems), intrusive older brother, he begins to wish himself dead. He sneers as his door opened letting Mycroft into the room.

  "Good morning, brother dear." Mycroft taps his umbrella against the floor and leans slightly against it.

  "Be careful, those things aren't meant to hold over 21 stone." Sherlock turns over in his cot to face the wall and wraps his blanket tighter around his thin frame. He can hear Mycroft chuckle.

  "Oh, brother, your powers of deduction seem to be failing. 14 stone."

  "Whatever. Leave now."

  "That is no way to greet our guest."

  Sherlock slowly turns his head to face Mycroft. "Your person now counts as two people? I told you to stop skimping on your -"  And then he sees him. "Who is he?"

  He is shorter than Mycroft. Dusty blonde hair looks light against his tanned skin. He has dark blue eyes and thin lips. His small hands are slightly tanned and his stance strong. _Army veteran._ He leans slightly on his right leg. _Psychosomatic limp._

  The man steps forward and offers his hand, "John Watson, I'm your new doctor."

  _Oh, this will be fun._

  "I'm surprised that the last one lasted so long. Five months. That must be a record." Mycroft speaks up when Sherlock ignores John's hand.

  Sherlock had a thing with the doctors that worked at the mental hospital. He had been here three years and had scared away more doctors than anyone wanted to count. Five months was a long time for a doctor with Sherlock in their care. Most doctors lasted between two weeks to a month at most. Dr. Anderson was a persistent one, just like his smell. One doctor had lasted fifteen minutes before she ran out the room.

  Sherlock hates 'real' people, especially 'doctor-real' people.

  Sherlock hates a lot of things. It was easier than figuring out what he liked.

  "Are you done here? You are making the room feel quite small." Mycroft huffs a breath before leaving, John trailing behind.

  "Have a good week brother dear." He spins his umbrella around his wrist, the door closes and Sherlock is trapped in white again. Not that he particularly minds it.

\---

  John enters the room by himself about twenty minutes later, leather medical bag in hand. He places his bag next to Sherlock's bed before setting a piece of paper on his stomach, "Your brother told me to give it to you."

  John slowly crouched down, pain flickering over his features for a brief second before disappearing. He pulls a stethoscope out of his bag, loops it around his neck, and takes out a small notepad and pen. He scribbles something down as Sherlock opens up the note. It's a short message in Mycroft's script, ' _Tell Gregory that I love him.'_

  Sherlock folds up the notes and shoves it into his pocket as John presses two fingers to his jugular. Sherlock nearly jumps out of his skin, no doctor ever touches him. It's not against the rules, but no one wants to be near Sherlock, nonetheless touch him voluntarily (expect Irene, but she doesn't count.) He snaps his head to the right to look at John and see that John has turned away to write on his pad, fingers gone from Sherlock's neck, but the sensation still lingers. John looks up to find Sherlock staring holes into his head. "Hello."

  Sherlock remains silent for a few moments before asking, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

  John seems thrown off for a moment before answering, "Afghanistan. How- how did you know that?" Redbeard barks after sniffing John's bag for several moments as if a seal of approval. He came around to curl up next to John's bent legs, licking the bottom of his shoe before setting his head down on the white tile.

  Sherlock closes his eyes and brings his hands together, fingertips touching, under his chin. The nurses had warned John about Sherlock's eccentricities. According to the nurses he was able to 'take you apart and spill your life story, especially the parts you try to hide, within minutes of laying eyes on you'. This was the cause of many doctors and nurses quitting so quickly. John stared at Sherlock's sharp profile before shaking his head and returning to work. The physical examination went quickly and with a word from his patient. The examination ended with a few questions about how Sherlock felt, all of them answered in a monotone voice without Sherlock caring to open his eyes.

  John stands from where he was crouched, pain again shooting up his leg. "Have a nice day, Mr. Holmes." He begins to take his leave when Sherlock spoke.

  "Your hair and your leg."

  John froze and turned to face where Sherlock still lay on his cot,  "Excuse me?"

  "And your hands. Please, just Sherlock." John drops his bag and walks back to Sherlock.

  "I don't understand."

  "Because you're an idiot." John lifts his eyebrows, "Oh, don't take it to heart, nearly everyone is." Sherlock waves his hand dismissively as if he saw John's reaction.

  "So."

  "So what?"

  "Are you going to tell how you figured out that was either in Afghanistan or Iraq based on my hair, my leg and my hands."

  Sherlock sits up and shifts his body to face where John is still standing. "It fairly obvious. Your face and hands are tanned, but when you offered me your hand, I saw no tan above the wrist. You had gotten tan abroad, but not sunbathing. Your hair is in a military length, so you got home recently. But, a haircut like that could be a personal preference, couldn't it?," he pauses as John nods to agree, but in truth, John likes his hair a little longer. Sherlock continues, "But the way you hold yourself screams military. You lean slightly more onto your right leg and when you stepped closer I saw you limp. Also when you crouched down, pain.  But your limp is psychosomatic. You stand as if you had forgotten about it. Psychosomatic limp in turn leads to a traumatic injury. Wounded in action and a suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq."

  John stands, mouth slightly open in awe. He is about to speak when Sherlock makes another comment, "Where is your cane?"

  "Outside. They wouldn't let me have in here. They believe that you could use as a weapon against me."

  Sherlock nods silently and lays back, eyes fluttering shut as John speaks again, "I had been warned about you by everyone, but that, that was amazing." Sherlock's eyes shoot open, but he doesn't say a word. He can't think of any. "I would think that you could hurt some people by ripping them open like that, but you have a talent. You got that all in just those few minutes of knowing me?"

  "And your examination." John lets out a low whistle and runs his hand through his short hair.

  "That is brilliant."

  "Do you really think so?" Sherlock had sat up again and stared at the white wall in front of him, avoiding John's gaze. _This doesn't usually happen, why is he ruining the system?_

  "It was extraordinary." Sherlock turns to look at him.

  _He isn't lying._ "That's not what people normally say."

  "What do they say?"

  "'Piss off.'"

  John laughs.

\---

  It's raining on Thursday. Sherlock returns to his cell after his morning meal to find Gregory sitting in his usual sulking spot under the one window in the room. He ignores the words that Greg muttered and settled on his bed, hands going into the pockets of his white pants. Everything was white in his room, white walls, white tile, white ceiling, white sheets and white clothes. The sink and toilet in the far corner of the room where a silver. No mirror though.

  Sherlock digs his hands further into his pockets until he feels a paper against his right hand. He pulls it out. Mycroft's note.

  Once upon a time, not so long ago, Mycroft had broken out of his 'Iceman' persona and meet a man that he cared for and deeply loved. Unfortunately, in Sherlock's opinion, that man loved him back. Both men being in positions that were dangerous, the British government and Scotland Yard, they knew the risks of their endeavor. However, they didn't care and flung all judgment to the wind.

  Their little Nirvana could only last so long.

  On a rainy night, in a dark alley, Gregory Lestrade was attacked and killed. Apparently, Lestrade had been receiving threats for months to stay away from Mycroft Holmes. At first he thought it was Sherlock, a jealous younger brother, but when Sherlock claimed no knowledge of the threats, he knew it was serious. He didn't tell Mycroft though. He didn't tell anyone after he told Sherlock. He would receive the threat, letters and words from magazines cut out and pasted on a piece of lined paper, in a white envelope with only Greg's name on it. No fingerprints, nothing. He shoved all the letters into the bottom drawer of his office desk. 

  And then he was killed.

  Mycroft went into a fury when he discovered the letters. When he found out who sent them and who killed him, the people in question didn't live much longer. Mycroft was broken.

  When Sherlock began to see the 'people', he saw Gregory first. Always on a Thursday, always crying when it rained, always asking for forgiveness. Sherlock told Mycroft that Greg was one of his visions before he was sent to the hospital. Mycroft had asked that if Sherlock could talk to Gregory, if he could just for him, tell him that he loved him. It had become a weekly occurrence. Every Sunday, Mycroft would come and visit. Before leaving he would say, 'Tell Gregory that I love him.' Thursday would come and he would deliver the message to his vision of Greg and he would return the sentiment. When Mycroft would come around next Sunday with his weekly message of his love for Gregory, Sherlock would add whatever Greg had said in response to Mycroft's declaration. Mycroft had not said a word about Greg when he came on Sunday, except his note, because John was there.

  "Lestrade," he turns in his cot and sees Greg turn his face to him, eyes rimmed red from crying. "Here," He extends his arm, with the note in between his index and middle finger. Greg crawls over and plucks the note out of his hand. Sherlock rolls back to lay on his back as he hears Lestrade open the note. A gasp captures Sherlock's attention. Greg sat on the ground with his hand over his mouth, silent tears making their way down his cheeks.

  "May I keep this?" His voice was weak and filled with emotion.

  Sherlock nods silently. Greg returns to his spot under the window, his words now seemed happier. "His handwriting, it's just as beautiful as I remember it." He presses the papers to his nose, "And his cologne is still the same."

  Greg doesn't cry the rest of the day and when Friday comes, the note is slightly wrinkled and lays peacefully under the window.

\---


	2. Chapter 2

John comes on Saturday to give Sherlock his weekly examination. Not a word is said for fifteen minutes except for Redbeard's occasional barks, but Sherlock has to remember that John can't see or hear Redbeard. Sherlock, no matter what he is telling John about his mental capacities, is struggling to distinguish the 'real' from the 'dead'. It was easier when he wasn't in the hospital, this cage of white with no access to the outside world beside Mycroft and John. Mycroft had told him that it was for his own good, that the people here knew how to rid Sherlock of the visions. Sherlock didn't mind the visions, they even helped him and were a good background noise in the buzz of his never restless mind. They weren't as strong, as distinct, as they were now. Sherlock couldn't see anyone 'real' and distinguish the visions as 'not real', the only people he saw were the nurses on a daily basis and they didn't talk to him and vice versa. Mycroft was a reliant supply of disappointment. No matter how much power Mycroft had, he doubted that Mycroft would let him see anything 'real', no cases or anything.

  So Sherlock sat in his palace of alabaster stone and waited for John to finish his examination.

  John Watson. He was an interesting one.

  Would he understand his visions? _No, best not tell anyone._ _John seems like one not to break the rules._

  But John did live outside the hospital, he saw that from the dirt on his shoes. Maybe John could give him information about the outside world. Something, anything, it might be useless, to fill his mind so he could sort it in his mind and maybe remember what the 'real' world was like. Not some people six feet under that come out to 'play'.

  _Oh, Jim. You toy with my mind the most._

  John walks out of the room, bidding his goodbye. Sherlock doesn't hear being too wrapped in his plan to get John to tell him information about the outside world.

\---

  It's dark outside the only window in the room when Sherlock speaks.

  "John, who is the current Prime Minister?"

  His voice bounces against the walls and finds no home.

\---

  Mental illness has been a problem since the beginning of time. The Ancient Romans made great contributions to the practice of psychiatry. They put forth the idea that strong emotions, such as tragic loss or great pain, could lead to bodily ailments, such as a limp. Psychosomatic illness.

\---

  Two examinations go by, Sherlock still not asking John anything about the outside world, John not trying to make conversation. On the third Saturday since John walked into the his white kingdom, he asks as John heads to the door.

  "John, who is the current Prime Minister?"

  "David Cameron." John brings his hand up to knock on the door to be let out.

  "Wait!" John lowers his hand, "I have more questions."

  "I'm only allowed here a maximum of forty-five minutes."

  "Yes and it's only been twenty. Come here, I have questions about what is outside that door."

  John places his bag by the door and sits at the far end of the cot while Sherlock crosses his legs and leans against the wall. "Okay, shoot."

  "Yes, uh-" Sherlock closes his eyes and begins to think quickly, he can't forget his questions, "Oh! How many planets are in the Solar System?" A completely useless question, but something to fill his brain so he could delete it later.

  "Eight."

  "Who won the latest World Cup?"

  "Germany."

  "Is North Korea a member of the UN?"

  "Yes."

  Questions filled the room and were answered. Remarks to some answers made John smile slightly.

 "Who won the American Civil War?"

  "I don't remember. I don't think I learned that at school. Why do you even care?"

  "John, you have become my supply of useless trivia about the world outside my door. You need to know everything." The corners of John's mouth tilt upward.

  "Sounds like I have homework."

  "Oh, yes! What was your last homework assignment?"

  "From uni it was an essay about war injury for my degree. Kind of ironic thinking of it now. Is that all, I think that it's nearing forty-five minutes."

  "Yes, yes, you can go." John begins to leave, "But be sure to gather all the useless information you can find. Who is playing next week, what is on BBC One. Got it?"

  "Yes, Sherlock," he gives a mock salute.

  "Be back on Monday."

  John frowns, "I'm only allowed Saturday with you, and I have work on Monday."

  "At this hospital." John nods and makes a face that says 'well yeah'. "I'll talk to my brother. You'll be back here on Monday. Do your homework."

  John chuckles as he bangs on the door. "Of course, Sherlock."

\---

  John watches crap telly all Sunday morning. He reads an article telling a brief history of the United States and another one about Britain. He went to three pubs and asked for a list of all the drinks they served and the number of those drinks served in the past week. He wrote down what was on BBC One from five o' clock to ten o' clock for the rest of the week. He went to Tesco and wrote down all the brands of tea they sold. He read about the history of rugby late into the night.

  John can't say why he is doing this, none the less for a patient, but it's better than going to see his psychiatrist.

  And it is for work reasons after all.  

\---

  John gets the call from Mycroft Holmes right after he finishes with Poppy Wilber, a patient with Bipolar disorder. He is surprised that the call came just when he was on break, but these Holmes boys seemed to know more than was for their own good.

  It takes him five minutes to get to the separate facility that Sherlock was held at. According to the hospital, he was one of the most dangerous patients they had, even though he had no history of violence. Out of all the people in the hospital, including the doctors and nurses, Sherlock seemed the most sane. He talked to John like a human being. Even with his quirks, Sherlock was a decent person and a slight mystery.

  John picks up his pace and tightens his grip on his cane.

  He does have an assignment to deliver.

\---

  John sits on his end of the cot and Sherlock sits on the other end, papers with notes and newspaper clippings scattered between them.

  "I hope I have done well enough to get a passing grade." John smirks. Sherlock clucks his tongue as he reads the lists with the drinks the three pubs served.

  "I'm not surprised that you were able to gather so such useless information in such a sort amount of time, but the information is only sub-par. I give you a C minus."

  "A C minus? I spent all Sunday getting this information!" Sherlock sniffs the paper he held.

  "Well, be more prepared next Monday. Why aren't the pubs listed on the paper?"

  "I wanted you to guess them." He pulls out a small slip of paper from his coat pocket, "I have the answers right here. Go on guess away."

  "Are all the pubs in London?" John nods. He stares at the papers, eyebrows furrowed slightly. He smells each one before closing his eyes and thinking. He opens his eyes, mouth becoming a small 'o' shape.

  He lays the papers out on the bed so John can see them. "One is Punch Tavern, two is Lamb and Flag, and three is Ye Olde Mitre." John checks his paper and smiles.

  "Correct! That's amazing. Tell me how--" John's voice was cut off by booming sound on the door.

  "Watson. Time's up!" John and Sherlock quickly gather the papers and stuff them under Sherlock's cot and John leaps out of bed, straightening his jacket. The look at each other and giggle. It was like they were teenagers trying not to be caught doing devilish things by their parents. The guard comes in and does a quick look over of the room before motioning for John to come with him.

  John grabs his bag from the ground next to Sherlock's bed and waves to Sherlock before he disappears behind the door that leads to the 'real' world.

  Sherlock doesn't like the 'real' world, not yet. 

\---

  Sherlock pours over the newspaper clippings. John cut out the stories about crime in the city and the recent death of a notable television icon. Sherlock had no idea who Wanda Greene was but John had printed out a short biography of her life. He busied himself for hours reading what John had given him. He filled his brain with this useless information, but it felt so wonderful. Something to do.

  He leans against the wall. "The first rugby match was held in Scotland in December of 1857 between Edinburgh University and Edinburgh Academicals. It is perfectly legal to kill any Scotsman who enters York if he is carrying a bow and arrow." Such useless trivia but it is so beautiful. The 'real' world is now in front of his eyes again, from the list of what Punch Tavern has sold for the past week to the listings of what is showing on BBC One at 6:30pm. He mind spins with the information.

  "You've been ignoring me all day."

  Irene's silky voice breaks through the pleasant chaos of Sherlock's busy mind. "I've ignored you before."

  "But you replaced me," She frowns and crawls behind Sherlock, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. "with your Doctor John Watson." She pinches his cheeks before lightly slapping it.

  "I didn't replace you. No one could replace that amount of self-entitlement."

  "Oh, Sherlock, your words hurt me," she nips at his ear, "John will only satisfy you for so long."

  "I am beginning to tire of your little mysteries. Can you bring me what he has brought me?" he gestures to the papers scattered on his cot. 

  "No," she rolls her hips forward against his back, her voice dropping to a low whisper, "but I can give you so much more."

  The guard bangs on the door and Sherlock quickly stuffs the papers under his bed. Irene slips away and goes to the far corner of the room. "Time for your dinner, Holmes!"

  He stands and walks out the door. Irene's voice calls out to him.

  "Don't fall for the trap of the 'real' world."

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this far. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading.   
> Things are heating up ;)

"What did you do before you were placed here?" Sherlock looks up from the new information John has brought him that week. John had been bringing Sherlock snippets of life every Monday for about a month. Sherlock would pour over the papers he would bring before talking to John about it, 'Where did you buy this newspaper? How much did it cost? Was it windy outside today?' John has begun to look forward to their meetings on Monday. Sherlock had so much insight and knowledge besides what he provided.

  "I worked for Scotland Yard, in a nature of speaking."

  "I don't picture you as a copper."

  "That's because I wasn't one. I was a consulting detective."

  John raises an eyebrow, "Did you just make that up?"

  "I did, about five years ago. I'm the only one in the world."

  "Sounds pretty lonely." Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, but he remembers that John doesn't know about the visions and no matter how much Sherlock want to tell him, he can't. John _will_ write it in the report and Sherlock _will_ be moved again. He doesn't want that to happen. John is too useful. He is an outlet to the 'real' world. Out of all the things the doctors are doing to 'cure' him, John's Monday visits are helping the most. 

  "You were an army doctor, how did that go?"

  John huffs, "You probably know the answer."

  "Yes I do. Where were you shot?"

  "Left shoulder."

  Sherlock hums and nods his head, eyes returning to the papers John had supplied this week. Sherlock tried to focus on the newspaper clipping in front of him about a local shop being robbed last Wednesday, but he couldn't. He stared at the toes of John's brown shoes. _Date tonight._ He scowled for a fraction of second.

  "Oh don't be jealous, Sherlock," Irene purrs from her perch on the edge of the sink, "I bet he has a real nice girl back at home. " Sherlock forces himself to not look over to the sink, not to raise alarm to John. He needed John to make his report look good so he could get out of here in due time. "I bet John likes the domestic life he lives outside this room with his girl. White picket fence, 2.5 children, married for life." She taunts.

  Sherlock's eyes flick over John's hand, no ring and no tan line from a ring. Irene continues to talk and Sherlock covers his ears, but he realizes it too late. Irene's voice is in his head, just like her vision. All he hears is her voice. He can't hear John's soft breath or the whistle of the air conditioning.

  "Sherlock!" he hears John yell. He feels calloused hands grip his slender wrists and pull them away from his ears. "Sherlock, are you okay?" Sherlock meets John deep blue eyes. He blinks reorienting himself. He shakes off John's hands and sweeps all the papers on the cot to the ground with the a single swipe of his arm. Jumping off the bed he hears Irene mock John's caring tone.

  "Are you okay, Sherlock? Oh, poor, insane, little Sherlock. We best lock him up. Bad, bad, Sherlock."

  Sherlock screams, "Shut up!" He drops to his knees and covers his ears in a dumb attempt to hush the voices in his head, "Please shut up. Just please, I need silence."

  He hears Irene slide back to the floor and whisper in his ear, "About time you begged for me." She slips away as Sherlock is greeted by the toes of John's brown shoes. John crouches, with less pain than before. The Sunday adventures he takes to get information has caused him to use his leg more and the pain slowly recedes to the back of his mind while he focuses on what Sherlock might want to know. His psychiatrist - that he pays - has done nothing to help him with his leg, but Sherlock - who he doesn't pay, but should - has helped him more not only somewhat heal his leg, but help him reconnect with people.

  "Hey, Sherlock," his voice is low, "Look at me." Sherlock lifts his head. "Are you okay? Do I need to call someone? Mycroft?"

  Sherlock grabs John's biceps tightly, "Please don't tell anyone that this outburst happened. It was just too much in my mind in such a short amount of time." Which was a flat out lie. He had taken in much more information at one time just years ago. It was Irene, that devil.

  John sighs and puts his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, "Okay, but just this once. How about you take it easy the rest of the day. I could go now if you want me, too."

  Sherlock's grip on John's arms tighten a fraction, "No, stay. Let me just, clean, yes, clean." Sherlock rises and begins to pick up the scattered papers. He reads a headline, _TOP TEN UPCOMING DEBUT SINGERS_. That was the real world. He turns to see John picking up papers as well. He smiles slightly before he shakes his head, smile drifting away. 

\---

  "Come on, John. Your childhood must have been terribly boring so tell me about it."

  "Okay, but you have to tell me about your childhood as well."

  "No way. That subject is off limits. Even I don't think about it."

  "It can't be that bad."

  "Have you met my brother? He is quite large so he would be hard to miss."

  "Come on, Sherlock, that isn't very nice. I have a older sister, Harry."

  "You do?"

  "Yeah, she's a total pain in the arse, but she's family."

  "Continue with the story of your dreadfully normal upbringing."

  "Well, for starters I was born on July 7, 1980--"

  "January 6, 1981."

  "Hm? Is that your birthday?"

  "No it was the day of my death. Of course it's my birthday."

  "Okay, sass queen."

  "I will input information about my adolescence if I deem it safe for you to know."

  They spend the rest of the day learning about each other, papers that John had brought forgotten. Two months had passed so quickly for the both of them.

  Irene sat in the corner, nearly forgotten by Sherlock, as she tapped away on her mobile.

  _We need to stop this - IA_

_I have an idea - JM_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy this chapter.  
> This chapter does include gore and mentions suicide.   
> Thank you for reading. :)

  "Dr. Watson has demons of his own," Henry Knight sits in the middle of the room, legs crossed with his shoulders hunched. It's amazing that a grown man can reduce himself to the demeanor of a small child. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, studying the newspaper clippings John had given him the day before, but had put aside to learn more about John's history. "I can feel them. They linger in this room. I can't believe that you don't see them."

  Sherlock ignores Henry's words.  _MAN JAILED FOR WIFE'S STAB MURDER. PUTNEY BRIDGE CLOSES FOR REPAIRS._  John had taken to not only bringing Sherlock news through newspaper clippings, but also through printing out articles from the web.  _'It's easier to search up murder or crime on the website than reading every headline. I do have a life.'_

  John had questioned why Sherlock wanted news articles on recent crimes, but after he had heard what Sherlock did for a living before he was sent to the hospital, he understood a little more at Sherlock's fascination with these crimes. Henry lighted up a cigarette, smoke spirals silently out of his mouth. Sherlock walks over and breathes it into his lungs. A buzz passes pleasantly through his body and he shivers from head to toe.

   _"I used to have a nice flat in Central London."_

_"Must have been expensive." John lays stretched out on Sherlock's cot, eyes closed._

_"The landlady owes me a favor."_   _John opens one eye to peer at Sherlock._

_"Everyone owes you a favor."_

_"Her husband was on death row."_

_"You got a man off death row," John chuckled._

_"Oh no, I ensured it."_

Sherlock walks back to his cot and look at the wall behind his bed. He imagines that he is back in 221B with his wall full of pictures and information. The web of London at his fingertips. He thinks of the conversation he had with John just a day before.

   _"I wish I had tacks to put these clippings on the wall."_

_"If they don't allow you to have paper, why do you think they would let you have thumb tack."_

_"How can I--"_

_"You thought of it?"_

_"Yeah, I've thought of seven ways."_

_John chuckles. He rolls over the cot to grab a piece of paper off the floor. "Maybe if you just," he slaps the paper onto the wall, "Place it on the wall, it'll stick." The paper fluttered down to John chest. "It worked in my head."_

_Sherlock smirks and grabs the paper off John and begins to read it out loud. John yawns and curls up on the cot._

_"Don't fall asleep, John."_

_"I'm just trying to be like you," Sherlock raises a skeptical eyebrow, "I am! Listening to stories about murders and decapitations to lull me to sleep. Like a proper Holmes boy."_

_Sherlock sits on the cot and leans his back against the wall. It's a tight fit, but they make it work. "Mycroft used to tell me a story about the 'East Wind'. A wind that would come and sweep all the unfit and unworthy people off the face of the Earth."_

  Henry's shaky voice rouses Sherlock from his memory. "Dr. Watson has demons like you. They might even be worse than yours. I can't believe that they haven't locked him up yet." Sherlock doesn't turn around. "You keep on ignoring it, but you can't deny what you saw." Henry is now standing behind Sherlock, breath ghosting on his shoulder.

_His left shoulder._

  "John's fine."

  "You keep telling yourself that." Henry patted his shoulder. "He looked so terrified. So ashamed that you had seen him like that."

  Sherlock turns around and violently shoves Henry out of the way. "What do you know? You weren't here yesterday!"

  Henry smirks and walks up to Sherlock. In all his years of seeing the vision of Henry Knight, Sherlock had never seen him like this, looking so wicked. "Oh, Sherlock, that is where you are wrong." He leans closer and whispers in Sherlock's ear, "I'm always there. I'm always in your head. And I will never leave."

  Henry leans back, smiles, and then his head explodes.

\---

  No one but Sherlock sees the blood. No one but Sherlock sees Henry's body, now without a head laying on the ground. Sherlock couldn't breathe, he couldn't think. There was so much red. Crimson painted his sheets. It stained his pants and shirt. He wonders if it had gotten to his face, but he remembers that there is no mirror in his room. Sherlock stumbles back and leans against the wall before sliding down to sit on the ground. He lifted his hands to cover his ears but he quickly dropped them to the ground.

  This was all in his head.

   _This isn't real. This isn't real._

  He thinks of John, of the newspaper clippings he brought, of his sweet smiles. Sherlock's breathe was still shaky.  _One, two , three, four. In, out, in ,out._

  He looks to the cot, blood dripping off the edge to pool on the white tile below. Bile rises in his throat and he runs to the toilet to cough up his meal. He rarely eats, but John says he should. He goes to the sink to rinse out his mouth and scrubs his hands raw. His breathing began to even out. He walks to the far end of the room and sits and faces the wall.

  He doesn't move until his called for his evening meal.

  When the guard does a look over of the room, he doesn't mention the dead body next to Sherlock's cot.

  Sherlock has to remind himself that Henry isn't real.

  It's getting harder to remember that now-a-days.

\---

  On Wednesday morning, Henry's body disappears from his room and is replaced by Charles Augustus Magnussen. Magnussen sits on Sherlock's bed as if he owns it. "Good morning, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock goes over to the sink and washes his hands. He tries to ignore Magnussen. "Seems as if you had a rough day yesterday. I hope I can make today a better one."

  Sherlock grabs the newspaper clippings from under his cot and heads to the opposite side of the room.

  "Sherlock, don't go yet. I have a surprise for you." He gracefully steps off the bed. Sherlock keeps focus on the papers in front of him. Magnussen plops down next to Sherlock and snatches the papers out of Sherlock's grip and throws them to the side. "Pay careful, attention, Sherlock."

  Magnussen digs out his mobile from his pocket and unlocks it. "You see, Sherlock, I used to be a powerful man. I had the world in the palm of my hand. If you crossed me, I could make your life a living hell. The power was a beautiful thing to have and you see no one could convict me. You know why?"

  "Why?" Sherlock drawls. He has heard this story thousands of times.

  "Because it was all up here," he points to his head, "If I wanted information on let's say, oh yes, John Watson, for instance, I could just close my eyes and go to my mind palace." Sherlock turns to face Magnussen, eyes wide. "Oh, yes," he laughs softly. Magnussen had his eyes closed, his fingers moving as if he had a file in front of him, "John was a looker when he was younger. Not so bad looking now, but wow, you should see him in his rugby uniform. Quite delicious."

  Sherlock growls. "I get your point."

  Magnussen opens his eyes and looks at Sherlock, "You know, being dead has its perks. You should try it one day." Magnussen looks through his phone until he finds a video, "You see, now, I can have things recorded for others to see, like you. I'm dead so I'm not in any danger." He presses play on the video.

   _Sherlock's sitting on the edge of the cot while John is laying down, sleeping. Sherlock runs his fingers through John's growing hair. It's not as short as it used to be. Four months of growth._

_John's brow furrows and his hands grip the sheet. Sherlock pulls his hand away and stares as John fidgets on the bed. His breathing is erratic and he screams, "Help! Medic!"_

_Sherlock grabs John's shoulders and shakes him, "Wake up! John, wake up! You're alright."_

_John wakes in moments, grabbing Sherlock's arms in a death grip, eyes wide and pupils blown. He jumps off the bed, grabs his bag and knocks on the door. "Wait, John. You don't have to go."_

_John shakes his head and knocks on the door again. He voice is hoarse, "I- I need to go. I don't want to hurt you. "_

_The door opens and he is gone, leaving Sherlock alone._

  "How did you get this?" Sherlock can hear his ragged breath.

  "I'm always with you Sherlock, it's not hard information to get." He smirks. "Do you like it? I could get you all the information you want about John Watson." He places the phone in Sherlock's hands.

  Sherlock stares at the screen. He presses the delete button, but the video doesn't disappear. He smashes his finger into the screen. Nothing happens. He hears Magnussen's wicked laughter.

  "I've been searching for years for your pressure point. I don't believe that drugs could be your pressure point." He stands and brushes invisible lint off his suit jacket, "But I do believe I have found it. Doctor John Watson. " He looks down at Sherlock crouched on the ground, stabbing the phone with his fingers. Sherlock look up and snarls. He leaps up and tries to make a grab for Magnussen, but he disappears.

  Sherlock turns around, fury pumping through his veins and throws the phone at the wall and watches it shatter into a million tiny pieces that no one besides him will ever see.

\---

  Sherlock sleeps most of Thursday.

  "Greg, tell me about your time with Mycroft."

  Greg looks up from where he is sitting next to Sherlock's cot, "I thought you weren't interested in that type of thing."

  "I just need something to listen to, for a while at least."

  Sherlock listens to Greg tell the tales of his Nirvana with Mycroft.

  Sherlock slept soundly that night for the first time in years, his demons letting him rest for one night.

\---

  "Morning, Sherlock," Moriarty greets him playfully when he returns from his morning meal. 'Stayin' Alive' playing from the speakers of Jim's phone. "Have you liked the gifts I sent you this week?"

  Sherlock flops onto his cot and turns his back to him.

  "Oh, that's not very nice. I thought that you would like my gifts. They are about your dear little John." Sherlock feels the cot dip slightly as Jim sits. Sherlock turns and sits to face Jim. "Sherlock dear, we need to talk."

  Sherlock sighs. Jim smiles, "Irene and I don't like how you are ignoring us and not only that, you are choosing to spend time with that Doctor John Watson." Jim stands and throws his hands in the air, "What's so special about him anyway?"

  "He doesn't haunt me."

  "Oh, Sherlock, I don't haunt you. I'm in your mind, you haven't deleted me, I must mean something to you." Jim strides to the center of the room, "Do you want to spend the rest of your life trapped in here?"

  "I'm going to be out of here soon."

  "But won't it be so much fun it you could join me. Put that brain of yours to good use. What are you going to do once you are released? If you are released, I know how much you want to tell your John about us."

  "I will go back into police work once I am out of here."

  "Oh, Sherlock, you are such a goodie goodie. Come join me."

  "You're dead."

  "And it's so much fun being dead! Come on, Sherlock, angels have no fun."

  "I'm not an angel."

  Jim smirks and waves his hand, "I guess that I will have to convince you another way." A figure of John appears next to Jim. It's a dummy, he can tell that the skin is plastic, but it looks so real. His blonde hair is slightly mussed and there is a bomb strapped to his torso. His pleading eyes look to Sherlock for help.

  "You can't do that."

  "Of course I can," he runs a finger along John's jaw line, "Can't I Johnny Boy?" Dummy John nods his head. Jim looks at Sherlock, "Even though I am dead, I can still hurt your John, I still have people out in the 'real' world."

  A red dot appears on John's chest. John looks down and look back to Sherlock, eyes on the verge of tears.  _This isn't John. The 'real' John is strong and won't be here until Saturday. John will be okay._

  "It's time to choose a side, Sherlock."

  "No." 

  "Oh, well."

  Moriarty walks backwards and disappears, leaving John still standing with the bomb on his torso and the red dot on his heart. Sherlock takes a step forward.

  The bomb goes off. John's body splatters across the wall and floor. No place in the room in clean of blood. Blood drops off the ceiling like rain. Sherlock's clothing is coated in John's blood. John's shoes stand as the marker of where he stood.

   _I've killed him. I killed John._

  Sherlock doesn't move from his spot until the he is called for his evening  meal and a shower. Sherlock rubs his skin raw to erase the blood that was never there.

\---

  John comes shortly after Sherlock's morning meal on Saturday. 

  "Did you eat this morning?" Sherlock shakes his head and John sighs. The examination goes quickly, only fifteen minutes and John's done. He sits on the edge of Sherlock's cot and lightly grips Sherlock's knee. "Are you okay? You seem a bit shaken up today."

  "What's her name? Your girlfriend."

  "Mary. But that's not answering my question."

  "Do you like her."

  "Yeah, of course."

  "Do you want to marry her?"

  "Jesus, Sherlock, why are you asking me this?"

  "I just want to know."

  "Honestly, I don't know. I like her and she likes me, but I feel her drifting away. She's a nurse at St. Bart's in London and she knows that I work here, but I can't tell her anything about my workday. It's like 'How was your day at work' and all I can say is 'Confidential'. Why do you want to know this?" Sherlock thinks about Greg and Mycroft's relationship. Mycroft worked a high position in the government - that 'Minor position in the British Government' was complete bull - and most of what he worked on was highly classified. He wondered how Greg felt about that, when Mycroft knew his every move and Greg knew none of his.

  "John, can I trust you?"

  John squeezes his knee, "Of course you can. What's going on?."

  Sherlock sits up and stares John straight in the eye, "What I am about to say, you cannot, do you understand me -  _cannot_ \- be written down on any report."

  "Sherlock, if it has to do with your health--"

  "No, please just listen, you have to promise that you won't tell anyone. Please John." This is his last hope. Maybe, if John knows about Sherlock visions he could help him. John has been able to bring the 'real' world back to Sherlock, he could certainly save Sherlock from the 'dead'. "Please."

  John rubs a hand over his face and sighs, "I am going to be in so much trouble for this,"

  "No, you won't John."

  "But it's about your health, isn't it? Are you seeing things again?" Sherlock looks down, "God, Sherlock, you need to tell someone, we are trying to help you here."

  "No! Even you know that's a complete lie. I was better before I was here. Then you came and you made it so much better. I remember the 'real' world now. You have to promise not to tell a soul. Of all the people here, you have helped me the most. And you are the one I am telling."

  John sighs and his shoulder slouches slightly, "Okay, okay, this is absolutely crazy but I promise," he holds out his pinky finger.

  "What are you doing?" Sherlock scrunches up his face.

  "A pinky promise, didn't you do this when you were younger?" Sherlock shakes his head, "It's not like I have a knife so we can cut each other palms to make a blood brothers pact. And that's really unsanitary. So this is what we have to seal the deal."

  Sherlock feels the bile again creeping up his throat at the thought of blood, especially John's blood, "Can't we just shake hands?"

  "Humor me." Sherlock links his pinky finger with John's for a moment and releases and shuffles back to give John room to place his legs on the bed.

  "Okay, they started when I was twenty-nine years old. The first vision I saw was Greg Lestrade, Mycroft' dead lover. He was the DI that I got my cases from.  The second one was Irene Adler. I knew her, but she too had died after I exposed her. Henry Knight came shortly after. I figured out that his father was murdered when he was younger and who committed the crime. He claimed that a hound had done it. He eventually committed suicide. James Moriarty came after I had exposed his crime web that ran through Europe. Redbeard--"

  "The dog you had as a kid."

  "Yes, he came after. Last was Magnussen. He was my last case before I was sent here when I was thirty. You see, back then, I was addicted to drugs and I thought that the drugs were the cause of these visions, but when I got clean, they stayed with me and they didn't just pop up randomly, they came in a schedule."

  "A schedule?"

  "Yes. On Monday, it was Irene Alder. Tuesday, Henry Knight. Wednesday, Magnussen. Greg was on Thursday followed by Moriarty on Friday. Redbeard comes on the weekends." Redbeard barks from where he sits, half under the cot.

  "So he is here right now." Sherlock nods, "Where?"

  Sherlock guides John's hand to touch his fur, "You won't feel him or see him, but he feels and sees you just like the rest of the visions." Sherlock releases his hand and John continues to pet Redbeard's silky coat, "The reason I have come to tell you this is that, while you have helped my reconnect with the 'real' world and helped me remember what it is like outside my door, my visions have become quite unhappy with you."

  "With me? Why?"

  "All of them, except Greg and Redbeard, have begun to threaten you and your relationship with me. They say that I am being distracted by you."

  "Does that mean that I need to leave?"

  Sherlock shakes his head, "No, no. This is why you have to stay. They have done terrible," Sherlock's voice quivers at the memory of John's body exploding, "things to you. They threaten to hurt you." Sherlock swallows the rising bile, "They blew you up. Your blood was all over the walls, John, and no one but me could see it."

  "But I'm right here, right in front of you." John clasps Sherlock's hands in his.

  "I know, but it's becoming harder to distinguish. They know what I am thinking at every moment of the day. They know that right now I am talking to you about them and about what they did to you. They know how sick I felt when I saw it happen, they know me better than I know myself and I'm going insane aren't I? Poor, little Sherlock. Poor, insane Sherlock." Sherlock shivers as Irene's words slip out of his mouth.

  "No," John grips Sherlock's face in his hands, "You are not going insane, not on my watch. I'm going to ask Mycroft to let me visit you every day for two hours starting Monday. You need to convince him tomorrow that you need some," John waves his hands looking for the word, "extra support to make your transition back into civilian life easier, under my supervision and my orders."

  Sherlock nods, "That's brilliant. Yes, yes, that should work well."

  John nods and releases Sherlock's face. Sherlock has to resist the urge to pull his hands back to his cheeks. John checks his watch, "I have a minute left," he runs a hand through Redbeard's fur, even though he can't see him. "Thank you, for telling me about this. I will try my best to help you. Have a good day, Sherlock. Try to get some sleep and eat, if not for you, for me." He smiles. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a picture, "Whenever I have bad dreams about Afghanistan, I look at a picture of me and my army buddies that survived. It helps me remember that, yes it happened, but we lived. I lived." He gives a picture to Sherlock just as the guard walks in to escort John out. Sherlock stuffs the picture into his pocket and waves goodbye to John.

  The door closes and he looks at the picture. It's a recent picture. Most likely taken by a friend. John's smiling, sitting on a leather couch, wearing a football jersey and holding a bottle of beer. Sherlock falls back against his pillow and let's his right arm dangle off the edge of the cot so Redbeard could lick his palm. He stares at John's picture.

   _We lived._ _I lived._

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem mentioned in this chapter is called 'I think I was enchanted' by Emily Dickinson. I highly suggest you read it.  
> Hope you enjoy this chapter and thank you so much for reading. :)

Irene snaps the ridding crop across Sherlock's arse as soon as the guard closes the door, escorting John back into the 'real' world. Sherlock bites his lip and refuses to jump. John's two hour sessions had been going on for about a month, nearing two. Today's session was without interruption from Irene, Sherlock nearly forgetting her presence in room. Another strike landed in between his shoulder blades.

  "Now that annoyance is gone," she grabs Sherlock by his shoulder and spins him around, "It's time for you to focus on me." The ridding crop runs a course from the hollow of his slender neck to his sharp chin. It circles his cheeks and traces the contour of his lips. His face is mapped by the black object, Irene's eyes boring holes into his forehead. Her brow creases slightly.

  " _I think I was enchanted_

_When first a sombre Girl --_

_I read that Foreign Lady --_

_The Dark -- felt beautiful --"_

Irene pauses and steps back, ridding crop dropping to her side before it disappears. The lines on her face become deeper and more distinct than ever before. Her thick, dark hair becomes thin and grays. Her hands and bare arms become littered with wrinkles and sagging skin. Deep brown eyes become completely black. When she speaks again, her voice is low and scratchy.

  " _And whether it was noon at night --_

_Or only Heaven -- at Noon --_

_For very Lunacy of Light_

_I had not power to tell --"_

  Irene walks backwards until she is almost standing under the window. She collapses to the ground. Sherlock instinctively moves forward, but his feet can't move. He looks down to see black vines covered in thorns rise out of the ground and wrap around his feet and calves. Irene groans and wraps her arms around herself. Something seemed to be underneath the skin located near her shoulder blades. It pushed and crawled under her skin until it breaks through. Inky blood dripped down the her sides to gather on the white tile. The contrast made Sherlock's eyes burn.

  Irene howls in pain as black wings emerge from her back. The feathers seemed razor sharp. The wings reached out to Sherlock. He begins to squirm, but the vines hold him in place and continue to slither up his legs. A obsidian colored feather caresses his cheek, drawing blood. It slips down his face, like the tears he wanted to shed, but no longer could. The wings splay against the long wall, nearly obscuring the window, his only reach - before John - to the 'real' world.

  Irene struggles to her feet and screams, her face cracking and pieces falling to the ground and shattering as if she was made of porcelain.

  " _I think I was enchanted."_

Her body shatters. Pieces of her lay strewn on the white tile. The tile wasn't so white anymore. The wings gracefully float to the ground like snow. Sherlock feels the vines again. The creep up his torso and encircle his neck, squeezing slightly.

  The floor caves beneath him and all he sees is black.  

  It's such a weird thing. After so long being surrounded by white, the black make Sherlock feel at peace.

\---

  Sherlock wakes in a bed much nicer than the one he is used to. The white again encases his body. A face appears. _John._

  "You're finally awake." There are more lines on John's face. Sherlock's stomach knots, remembering what happened to Irene. First it was the lines and then it was the death.

  There was so much blood.

  "What happened?" His throat was dry and sore. John helps him sit up and hands him a glass of water.

  "You fainted."

  "Passed out, you mean." He slowly sips the water. John smiles and waves a hand.

  "Have you been eating lately?" Sherlock lowers his eyes. John sighs and rubs his temple, "You need to eat. This is the reason why you faint -- passed out. What happened to our deal?"

  "Oh, God, not that again." Sherlock lets his head fall against the pillows and groans when his head begins to pound.

  "'Sherlock's Sticker Sheet'" John says smugly. "Come on, I know you love getting those golden stars."

  "But the name is so dreadful."

  "I think that it is quite original. And I came up with it, so it's absolutely brilliant." He crosses his arms over his chest. Sherlock feels a smile creep across his features. Only John could make him forget what had landed him in this bed that wasn't his.

  _"I was informed that you have eaten at least one meal every day for the past week. I think we should celebrate."_

_"I don't think you could have smuggled a cake in that bag, but if you have I don't know why you would even bother."_

_"Oh come on, don't be like that. I have stickers."_

_"Stickers? What are you, five?"_

_"I think that we should keep track of how many weeks you go with eating at least one meal a day." John ignores Sherlock's comment and pulls out a white sheet with the words 'Sherlock's Sticker Sheet' written on the top. It already has one sticker on it. He gives the sheet to Sherlock. "That sticker was for the last time you ate for a week." He takes out a page of stickers from his bag. Sherlock stares at him as if he had grown another head. "What?"_

_"Are you serious?"_

_"Dead serious."_

_"'Sherlock's Sticker Sheet'?"_

_"I saw the opportunity and I took it."_

_Sherlock grins and chuckles, "You're bloody ridiculous. Give me the damn stickers."_

  Sherlock laughs at the memory. That, _that,_ was 'real'. He took a deep breath. "Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?"

  "Yeah, what it is?" John gives Sherlock the pen from his coat and paper off the pad next to Sherlock's bed.

  "Why I passed out, it wasn't because I hadn't eaten, it was because of," Sherlock raises his eyebrows and waves his hand as he uncaps the pen.

  "Oh."

  "Yeah, so I heard these words." He scribbles down what Irene had said and hands it to John, "Tonight, I want you to look this up and see if anything comes up. I have a feeling that it comes from a piece of literature. I need to know what it is and who wrote it." John looks at the words before pocketing the paper and taking back his pen.

  "Of course. We are going to let you go back to your room in a few hours." he puts his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Just try to get some sleep and be--" he pauses as if looking for the right words, "Be strong. Remember what is 'real'." He runs a hand through Sherlock's hair affectionately, smiling softly.

  Sherlock watches him walk out of the room.

  He wonders what it would feel like to run his hands through John's blonde hair.

\---

  The first thing John does when he gets back to his flat is look up what Sherlock had written down. He didn't take off his coat or his shoes. He didn't even start the kettle for tea. It was so unlike him, so out of his routine. His routine gave his comfort and a sense of normality that he had lost the moment he was shot.

  But it was for Sherlock.

  John shook his head as he shrugged off his coat and took off his shoes. Ever since he became Sherlock's doctor, he had begun to go out his way to do things for him, things that he wouldn't even do for his closest friends. He had run about the city, thrown his perfectly set schedule out of whack, and in the process, 'cured' his psychosomatic limp. John had to remind himself, more times than he cares to admit, "Doctor, patient, doctor, patient. Nothing more and everything less."

  But it hadn't been working.

  How many times had he spent his Sunday thinking about what to bring Sherlock the following Monday? How many times had he stared at Sherlock's lips, his eyes, his hands, a moment longer than necessary? How many times had he wished that he could rid Sherlock of his demons at the snap of his fingers? How many times had he wanted to kiss the pout off his lips and make him smile at everything he said?

  Too many times to count.

  Too little to satisfy.

\---

  Sherlock woke to see Henry sitting on the edge of Sherlock's cot. His shoulders were hunched and his hands balled up in his lap. The overhead light that was on at all hours was off and the room was completely dark. Sherlock slowly sat up.

  A flickering light from his right caught his attention. He began to walk toward it. It was a small cluster of light that reminded Sherlock of pictures of elliptical galaxies John had brought him one day. The cluster grew slightly larger in size and Sherlock took a small step back. The light grew stronger and he faintly heard the sound of children laughing and the buzzing of bees. The dots of light began to mold into bees.

  _"The Bees -- became as Butterflies --_

_The Butterflies -- as Swans --_

_Approached -- and spurned the narrow Grass --_

_And just the meanest Tunes."_

Henry's voice seemed to command the changing of the shapes. The butterflies surrounded Sherlock, the Swans spread their wings and bowed to become the grass now under his feet. Then they began to return, the bees, the butterflies, the swans, all surrounding Sherlock in their beauty.

  _"That Nature murmured to herself_

_To keep herself in Cheer --_

_I took for Giants -- practising_

_Titanic Opera --"_

Henry's voice lingered, the two verses repeating over and over again as the animals grew closer and closer to him. The bees and butterflies flew all around as the swans walked around him. His head felt dizzy at all the chaos.

  It was so beautiful.

  He felt himself being lifted up, as if he was flying. He tilted his head up and saw the ceiling open up. He rose above the roof and up into the clouds. The animals still surrounded him, the grass still under his feet. They began to part and he looked at the world.

  Destruction.

  That's all he saw. Tentacles of smoke rose up from the ground and choked the swans. He couldn't move again. There was too much going on. Gunshots rang out and the bees and butterflies began to float down to the turmoil below. Fire licked the soles of his shoes, eating away the grass.

  And then he was falling. He landed on the floor of his of his room. He felt blood on his hands. He turned onto his back to look through the hole on the ceiling. Smoke and fire began come in through the space. His eyelids began to feel heavy, blood clotting his vision. In the distance, he heard Henry's voice again.

  _"I think I was enchanted."_

\---

  Sherlock wakes up on the tile, his skin tingling.

  He doesn't know whether it's because of the cold tile against his skin or the vision.

\---

  "The words you gave me are from an Emily Dickinson poem called 'I think I was enchanted'." John handed Sherlock a copy of the poem and a brief biography of Emily Dickinson.

  Sherlock nodded. The poem wasn't long, only eight stanzas long. He shoved the paper under his cot, rubbing his temple.

  "How did you sleep?"

  "Okay, I guess."

  "Did it happen again?"

  "Yeah, Irene said the first two stanzas. Today, Henry recited the next two." John pulls the paper out to read through the first four stanzas.

  "What happened?" he pauses and then adds, "If you don't mind telling me."

  Sherlock begins to walk around the room, running his hand through his hair. It didn't feel the same as when John did it. He pauses every once in a while before walking in circles again. He finally stops in the center of the room.

  "Irene grew wings out of her shoulder blades and the ground disappeared beneath my feet. Henry made butterflies and bees and swans surround me." He looked up at the white ceiling, the light bulb burning his eyes. "Then they animals took me out of here and showed me the destruction of the world. And then they died and I was back here." He turns to face John.

  "Am I crazy?"

  John swallows and shakes his head, "Those things aren't 'real', you have to remember that. The more you think that you are crazy, the more crazy you will become."

  "Is that doctor speak for, 'you are insane and we need to put you in a straight jacket'?"

  John huffs a breath and runs a hand through his hair, "No. Out of all the people that work and live here, you are the most sane." Sherlock stares at John in disbelief. He walks up to where John sits on his cot.

  "You're not lying."

  "I don't lie to people I care about."

  Sherlock blinks, once, twice, three times. Sherlock stands like a statue, the only thing that signifies that he is still alive is the slight rise of his chest and his occasional blink.

  "I-" he starts and then stops. He opens his mouth and then closes it several times. John thinks he looks like a fish for a split second.

  "You're a absolute idiot. One of the biggest ones that I have ever met in my life." He stops and swallows before continuing, "And yet you are the smartest, most wise, and most brave man I have ever met. I don't understand you. I don't think that I ever will."

  He leans down slightly and presses his mouth to the top of John's head. It smells like cheap shampoo, tea, antiseptic, and John. It's a hard scent to describe, but he wants to smell it forever. He pulls back and stares at John, watching a smile break out on his features.

  It was like the sun rising.

  He never wants it to set.

\--- 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your kind comments on this work. You guys make my day one million times better.   
> Thank you for bearing with me and so sorry it took me so long to get this chapter to you.   
> I hope you enjoy.   
> Stay fabulous.

  _"Medic! Please help!" John feels the ground shake beneath his boots. Dust flies up in the air and stings his face. A blast comes from behind and John falls forward. He crawls on his hands and knees away and to the voice. Where was the voice coming from?_

_"John, please, help me!"_

_Sherlock._

_No one called John by his first name in the army. It was always Watson or 'bandage-boy'. His arms shake as his rises to his feet. His knees quiver as another explosion makes the ground tremble. The voice calls to him again, Sherlock needs him._

_Why was Sherlock here?_

_He runs to the voice. His vision is blurred and his breath is ragged. Bullets begin to rain down around him. He hears the voices again._

_"Watson! Bandage-boy!" He turns and sees Thomas Snyder in a heap on the ground, arm around his stomach. Next to Snyder was Carlton, out cold, blood seeping from his head. John feels his stomach twist and bile rise up his throat. Sherlock calls out to him._

_"I'll be right back, hang on." He takes off to find Sherlock. Where the hell was he? He feels like he is running for hours, for days. Then he sees him. Sherlock lies on the sand with a red hole in his forehead. Bullet wound to the head._

_"Oh, God, Sherlock."_

_"I'm going to die."_

_"No, no you're not. You're going to make. You're going to be fine. Nothing a few bandages can't fix." But that's a lie. Sherlock won't live. It's a miracle that he is still alive._

_And then he feels the pain. It rips through his shoulder and he cries out. He drops to his knees and falls on his chest. He bites his lip until it breaks before he yells in pain again. He sees Sherlock reach out his hand. John lifts his hand on the arm that isn't hurt and attempts to touch Sherlock's fingers. He stretches as his shoulder screams in pain._

_Their fingertips brush as tendrils of sand wrap around Sherlock's body and begins to pull him away._

_"No!"_

"No!"

  John wakes with a start, fingers tightly clenching his sheets. His chest heaves and a drop of sweat makes a trail down his bare back. He brings his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around himself. He sits still in the silent of the night and waits for his pulse to return to normal.

  He doesn't go back to sleep that night. Or the next.

\---

  John sees Sherlock after his morning meal. Newspaper clipping litter the floor within minutes of John entering the room. John leans back against the wall and chuckles as Sherlock mutters something about the incompetence of the police. Sherlock sighs and lies on the cold tile, papers surrounding him.

  "Didn't sleep too well last night, John?"

  "Uh, no. Not my best night." John rubs the back of his head. He wonders how Sherlock knew, was it the dark circles under his eyes or the way he yawns every third breath.

  "What do you dream of? On those bad nights?" Sherlock still has his eyes closed. John wonders why he wants to know. Something to fill his brain most likely.

  "Afghanistan. When I got shot. The people I couldn't save." Sherlock nods. Silence envelopes the room and John feels himself on the edge of sleep. _No, no, don't fall asleep. You don't want it to be like last time._ He doesn't hear Sherlock get up until he plops down onto to the cot. 

  "You need to sleep." John sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

  "I'm fine. Aren't I the doctor here?"

  "You're doing a very good job of taking of yourself."

  John snaps, "Why do you even care?"

  Sherlock sighs and roughly grabs John by his shoulders and forces him to lay down on top of him. "I've told you before. You are a constant source of useless information." He runs a hands through John's hair, "And you are a constant mystery. I don't want you to die before I solve you."

  "I won't die of sleep deprivation." John sighs at the feeling of Sherlock's long fingers in his hair.

  "That's what Ivor Glover said before he went."

  "Who is that?" John chuckles at the ridiculous name.

  "I don't know. I just made him up." Sherlock smiles.

  John lays his head on Sherlock's chest and hears his heartbeat. He snakes his hands under Sherlock's back and closes his eyes. Maybe a little nap wouldn't hurt.

  "Mycroft used to hold me like this when I was younger and my brain wouldn't stop." John relishes in the feeling of Sherlock's fingers running through his hair. He wanted to be like this forever. "I thought it was dumb at first, but it was surprisingly soothing. I would do it often until I was able to make the noise die down a little, even then, I would still go to my brother just for comfort."

  "What happened between you two? If you don't mind me asking."

  "He is seven years my senior. He was all grown up and I was still young and he left me alone. I was needy as a child and I never forgave him. He would come back home and I would act like he was never there. I admit that it was foolish."

  "Why don't you try to make amends?"

  "It's better this way. Caring is not an advantage." John squeezed Sherlock's torso. He remembers that it was just yesterday when Sherlock had pressed his lips to his forehead. Caring was something that was just fine. Sherlock and his damn pride. John sighs and smirks.

  "You two are stubborn fools."

  "Makes life fun."

  It was quiet except for the steady beating of Sherlock's heart against John's ear. John matched his breath to Sherlock's and shuts his eyes.

  "What's your favorite color?"

  "Favorite colors are biased and chosen solely by what the person thinks looks best on themselves subconsciously."

  John huffs a breath and smiles, "You must have been fun as a child."

  "Yours is blue. A deep blue like indigo."

  "Good job. Now answer the question."

  "I haven't seen myself in months."

  John lifts himself and looks down at Sherlock's face. His black curls frame the sharp the edges of his pale cheeks and chin. His eyes sparkle with the pigments of thousand colors. What color were they? Some days they looked blue, other days they looked green or gray. Today they reminded John of a kaleidoscope he owned as a child. Every movement would change the pattern and the color. It was stunning.

  "Purple."

  "Purple?"

  "Yeah, the color would compliment your eyes and contrast nicely with your pale skin." John lowers himself back down to Sherlock's torso.

  "Have I told you that you are one of the biggest idiots in the world?"

  John laughs, "Yes, you have."

  "I don't think I tell you that enough."

  "I feel like that is the highest compliment I can receive from you." John can almost feel Sherlock rolling his eyes. "Wait, you said that I was _one_ of the biggest idiots in the world. Who is the biggest?"

  "Mycroft is the biggest in size --"

  John playfully hits his flank, "Come on, be serious."

  "Okay, honestly, the biggest idiot on the face of the planet is the person who decided to name one child Mustafa and the other Scar and not expect anything wrong to happen." John lifted himself up again and stared at the smug look creeping across Sherlock's face. He was absolutely ridiculous.

  "You're nuts. That's a lie."

  Sherlock pouts, "It is not."

  "And you've seen 'The Lion King'! I didn't know you did that type of thing."

  "I had very convincing parents. They wanted to have 'family time'." Sherlock makes air quotes with his fingers and rolls his eyes. "I spent the whole movie comparing Mustafa to Mycroft. There are both large and pompous."

  "You would be Scar."

  "Yes, I was very happy when he killed his brother."

  "But in the end, Simba gets his revenge and Scar dies." John supports himself on one arm and rubs Sherlock's side with the other.

  "Minor difficulty." Sherlock smirks and pushes back a piece of hair that had fallen onto John's forehead.

  "You won't ever tell me who the biggest idiot in the world is, will you?"

  "No, it's classified. Completely above your clearance level." John sighs and lowers himself again. Sherlock moves his legs so John's could lay in between.

  "I should have never told you about my love for Bond movies."

  "'Love'? More like unhealthy obsession." John snorted before closing his eyes again and listening the music hidden behind Sherlock's rib cage. "I think that you would be Simba. Stupid and impulsive, yet caring and brave." Sherlock murmurs as he slowly runs his hand through John's hair while John stroked his sides. It was peaceful. It made John forget that just feet away was a man that he couldn't see that tormented Sherlock. It made John forget that Harry had just left her wife, again. It made John forget about Afghanistan and the people he couldn't save.

  It made John forget all the bad and remember the good.

  There wasn't much left, but it was enough for now.

  "Tell me a story," he mumbled against Sherlock chest. Sherlock wraps one arm around his back and begins to speak about the 'East Wind'. John feels his body relax as the rumble of his baritone voice lulls him to sleep.

  His sleep is dreamless.

\---

  John is roused from his slumber when the guard knocks on the door. He reluctantly rises and straightens himself. The guard leads him out and he waves goodbye to Sherlock. He can see that Sherlock's hair is mussed from laying down. The side of his shirt is wrinkled along with some small wrinkles on his right pectoral. Sherlock raises his hand.

  Before John heads to his next patient, Susan Kimmel, he goes to the bathroom. He sees a small line from his ear to his jaw from laying on Sherlock's shirt. John smiles.

\---

  Sherlock turns around after John left to find his room transformed into a library. Wooden bookshelves tower from ground to ceiling. The shelves  line the perimeter of his room and lush carpets cover the floor. A tall ladder rests against one of the shelves. In the center of the room sits Magnussen. He lounges in a leather chair, tumbler filled halfway with a brown liquor in one hand while the other held a large book.

  "Good afternoon, Sherlock. Have a seat." he gestures to another leather chair that has appeared in front of him. Sherlock sits on the edge of the seat, back ramrod straight. "Relax, Sherlock. We are just going to have a nice day." A book materializes in his hand. _Fahrenheit 451._ He opens it and reads the note on the first page, it was written in a black marker.

  _'To John Watson. In case you get bored or you miss me ;) You also need to educate yourself on the joys of the English language. Please do enjoy and thank you. Thomas 'Tomcat' Snyder.'_

  A few dried drops of blood are scattered across the page. 

  "Thomas 'Tomcat' Snyder died on August 18 of 2010. He was one of John's friends while he was in Afghanistan. He died from an injury to his stomach. John was the one operating on him, but Thomas choose death instead. He gave John this book. It is now John's favorite book." Sherlock runs his hand over the page. He wonders if John dreams about Thomas, how he couldn't save him.

  Sherlock turns the pages until he comes to the first part, "The Hearth and the Salamander". He wonders how many times John has read this book. What did he take away from it? Does John learn from the mistakes of mankind, unlike the phoenix. He hears Magnussen rise from his seat and walk to one of the bookshelves. He places his book back and climbs up the ladder to find another.

  Sherlock looks up and watches as Magnussen chooses another book. Magnussen turns on the ladder and leans against it, feet up in the air. Sherlock wonders what would happen if he fell. Magnussen opens the book and begins to read out loud.

  " _The Days -- to Mighty Metres stept --_

_The Homeliest -- adorned_

_As if unto a Jubilee_

_'Twere suddenly confirmed --"_

  Sherlock hears the sound of footsteps and turns his head to the right. Soldiers in uniform march in formation. Their steps were in perfect unison with each other, arms swaying in one fluid motion. The marched around the perimeter of the room. And then one by one they began to fall. Blood would seep through their clothing and then they would collapse in heap on the ground. The other soldiers seemed not to notice and stepped right on them.

  " _I could not have defined the change --_

_Conversion of the Mind_

_Like Sanctifying in the Soul --_

_Is witnessed -- not explained --"_

  All the soldiers eventually fell to the ground except for two. One soldier had a band around his arm with a red cross. _John._ The other soldier was a few paces ahead of John. He was bleeding from his stomach, but he marched on as if he didn't notice it. John began to walk faster, but could never catch up to the man.

  "Thomas, hang on! You're going to be alright, just let me examine you. Thomas! Please!" John chased Thomas around the room, screaming and crying his name. Thomas falls to the ground, blood seeping onto the rug, and John stops right next to him. John drops down to his knees and places his head on his bloody abdomen. Sherlock rises and walks over and stands next to Thomas and John. He hears John's silent whispers.

  "Come on, Thomas. We're gonna go home and drink beer and it's going to be all okay. You just need to get up. Wake up, Thomas. Wake up please." Sherlock barely hears the sound of a bullet rush past him to hit John in the shoulder. John falls on top of Thomas, blood staining his shirt. Sand rises up from the floor and begins to cover Sherlock's feet. Slowly, the sand covers Thomas and John's bodies.

  Magnussen's voice breaks through John's cries. _"I think I was enchanted."_

  The sand climbed up the walls and Sherlock drowned in the ocean of sand, where John stopped believing.

\---

  "Can I meet Greg?" John looks up from where lays on Sherlock's chest. He had walked into Sherlock's room after lunch to find Sherlock laying on his cot. He took this as an invitation to have another 'brain-calming session'. Sherlock hadn't objected and John had dozed for a while before he remembered what day it was. Greg was the only one of Sherlock's vision, along with Redbeard, that didn't torment him. If he recalled correctly, Greg was Mycroft's boyfriend before he died.

  "I guess you can," Sherlock huffs and wraps his arms around John's torso, pulling him closer. He moves his head so that John's nose is buried in Sherlock's pillow. John breaths in the scent of antiseptic and hospital soap. Sherlock's nose tickles his earlobe causing John to giggle. "In a minute."

  John laughs and moves his hand blindly until his found Sherlock's face. He could hear Sherlock sigh, "That's my face. Good job, John." Sherlock's lips moved against his palm causing John to shiver. He wonders if Sherlock felt him shake. If he did, he says nothing about it. He moves his hand up until his fingers are completely in Sherlock's dark curls. He moves his hand through his hair, hearing Sherlock hum a tune in his ear.

  The peace again. It settles over the both of them like a warm quilt. John loves it.

  "Tell me a story, John." John smiles and lifts himself up so he can see Sherlock. He begins to move off Sherlock when Sherlock grabs his hips and flips them. John feels the breath knocked out of him as he falls onto the cot. Sherlock lies on top of him in the position John was in not seconds ago. His breath tickles John's ear.

  "What about?"

  "Anything."

  John wraps his arms around Sherlock as Sherlock begins to run his hands through John's hair. "Long time ago, the Sun was in love with the Moon. He loved her so much, that he decided to give her a gift."

  "The Moon is a woman?"

  "Yes. And the Sun is a man."

  "Okay, continue."

  "The Sun went to the stars and asked them to weave the Moon a beautiful dress. After a few days, the Sun was given the dress and that night, he gave it to the Moon. She was so surprised, but when she tried on the dress, it was too small. The Sun apologized and went back to the stars and asked them to weave a smaller dress. After a few days, the Sun went back to his love and gave her the larger dress, but this time the dress was too big for her. The Sun was so confused. Every time he brought her a dress, it was too small or too large. He was so sad. The Moon was so embarrassed and began to run away from the Sun. So, forever, the Sun would chase after the Moon, trying to give her a new dress. Trying to get her to fall in love with him." John whispered the last few words. John continued to run his hand through Sherlock's thick curls.

  After a few moments he turned to see Sherlock fast asleep next to him. He smiles and kisses the side of his head, humming a tune he had heard long ago.

\---

  Sherlock woke after a while. They spent the rest of the afternoon talking to Greg. Sherlock grudgingly acted as translator.

  "Arsenal or Manchester?" John sat across from a man he couldn't see.

  "Arsenal." Sherlock answers once he hears Greg's reply.

  "Good choice. Where did you work?"

  "Scotland Yard."

  "Did you work with Sherlock?"

  Sherlock hesitates a moment before answering, "Yes."

  John hits Sherlock's knee chuckling, "What else did he say?"

  Sherlock smirks, "Above your clearance level."

  At the end of the day, John decides that he likes Greg and that if he were still alive, they would make great friends. Sherlock tells John that Greg thinks the same.

\---

Sherlock wakes up with the smell of chlorine clogging his nostrils. His body feels light. It's only until he opens his eyes and moves around that he realizes that he is underwater. He screams and begins to swim frantically to the top. Once his head breaks the surface, he takes in big gulps of air. He pulls himself out and begins to take in his surroundings.

  _The pool. Carl Powers._

  "Do you remember this place?" Moriarty steps out of the shadows.

  "Carl Powers."

  "Oh, yes. He was my first you know. He was quite the achievement. And then there was you," Jim was about five feet away from Sherlock when he stopped walking. "The only one who thought something was up. No one listened to you though. I was so proud of you. Little Sherlock in his little black coat trying to figure out why Carl died." Moriarty chuckled, "You were adorable."

  "And then I caught you."

  "No one will ever catch me."

  "I did. Or at least got the closest."

  "And then you became a nuisance. You were always so determined to use your mind for good, but we both know that you aren't pure." Moriarty extends his hand, "Come on join me, we'll have so much fun."

  "No."

  "Ugh, you're like vanilla ice cream. It satisfies your craving for sugar but only for a while. Then you turn bland."

  The scene changes and they are on a roof. The wind whips around them. Sherlock is standing on the ledge, arms spread. Jim stands behind him, breath ghosting over his shoulder. "Remember what I told you once about falling?"

  "It's just like flying--"

  "--Except there is a more permanent destination." Moriarty pressed his hand to the small of Sherlock's back. Sherlock felt his breath catch in his throat.

  _"'Twas a Divine Insanity --_

_The Danger to be Sane_

_Should I again experience --_

_'Tis Antidote to turn --"_

Sherlock looks down at the street below. A cab pulls up to the curb. A man jumps out. Correction - _John_ jumps out of the car. He runs and then stops, hand coming up to cover his mouth. He lowers it and screams, "Sherlock!"

  _"To Tomes of solid Witchcraft --_

_Magicians be asleep --_

_But Magic --hath an Element_

_Like Deity -- to keep --"_

  Sherlock sees John standing on the street, immobile and still shouting his name. He feels Jim's hand against his spine. When did he begin to call Moriarty, Jim?

  He was just as crazy as him, if not crazier.

  Jim pushed.

  Sherlock felt the air rush around him and his coat billowing.

  _"I think I was enchanted."_ he hears Moriarty's voice say.

  _"The Danger to be Sane,"_ Sherlock whispers as he reaches his destination.

\---

  John enter his room after his morning meal. As soon as the door closes and John sets his bag down, Sherlock pushes him against the wall, smashing their lips together. John stiffens up against him before relaxing and melting into the kiss. John's arms come up and circle Sherlock's shoulders while Sherlock pulls John's torso closer to his. Sherlock slowly pulls away and places his forehead against John's

  "Don't leave me, don't ever leave me." he pants. He stares into John's deep blue eyes. He could drown in them and he wouldn't mind.

  "I promise, until the end of time."

\---


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait on this chapter.   
> Thank you so much for reading.

  "Watson."

  "Good morning, Doctor."

  "Oh, Mycroft, how may I be of service today?" John shifts so his mobile rest between his shoulder and his ear as he leans down to tie his shoes.

  "I was just wondering how Sherlock is faring this month."

  "Why can't you just ask him?" He straightens his coat and grabs his bag before he unlocks the door.

  "I am not in London at the moment. However, you are."

  "Ah, yes. Your brother is doing just fine. I have put in a good word for him and it seems that he might be released in the next few months." John slows as he sees the entrance to the tube station. "Sorry, I have to cut this short I am --"

  "Nearing the station, I know. I won't keep you much longer." John steps to the side of the pavement, leaning against a building.

  "You two are crazy. What do you do exactly?"

  Mycroft chuckles across the line, "I am afraid I can't tell you without having to kill you afterwards." John smirked and tilted his head up to see a security camera pointed at him.

  "I think I have a faint idea, just make my death quick."

  "On another note, today you will not be visiting Sherlock."

  "Why not?"

  "It's for Sherlock's own good. He needs to examined by another doctor so your report to release him can be approved."

  John sighs and rubs his temple. He looks back up at the camera, finding it still trained on him. "I don't think that this is a good idea."

  "It's the only way he will be released and it's for his own good."

  "Since when have you done anything for 'his own good'?" John can feel anger rise up his throat and ends the call before Mycroft can answer.

\---

  During his lunch break, John walks over to Sherlock's facility. He makes it past the first set of door before a pair of guards grab him by his arms and haul him out.

  "You are not allowed in this facility," one says looking over John's shoulder.

  "Do not return until you are told to do so," the other says. They both turn and leave, steps matching each other. John stands out in the cold for a long time, eventually wrapping his arms around himself to keep warm. He hears the bell from the church down the road ring to signify the one o' clock hour. He doesn't move until his mobile buzzes in his pocket, Sarah calling him to ask him 'where the hell he was'.

  John looks at the building one last time before turning to return to work. He wonders briefly is Sherlock is okay before remembering what Sherlock had said the last time he had asked that.

  _Being 'okay' is defined by past experience. If a person had never gotten a paper cut and they got one, they would say that they were 'not okay' because they have nothing in their past to compare the pain to. If a person was hunted by people and had nearly died several times, having a knife in their shoulder would most likely be 'okay' to them due to the fact that they know the risks of their endeavor. I am 'okay' with the people in my mind, and I am 'okay' with the situation I am living in because I have felt a pain worse than this._

\---

  Sherlock awakens before the sun rises to see his younger self sitting next to him. He slowly pushes himself up to an upright position and looks over the boy in front of him. Black curls stick up in every direction and his short legs swing back and forth, never touching the floor.

  "Am I dead?"

  The younger Sherlock turns to look at him. Sherlock didn't even know that he looked like that when he was an adolescent. He had very few pictures of himself as a child and even fewer during his teenage years.

  "Yes and no." Sherlock turns so he is sitting like the other Sherlock. Young Sherlock speaks up after a few moments, "This part of you is dead, your childhood and adolescence. You, in your adulthood, unfortunately are alive."

  Sherlock glares at his past self and watches as he stands and hold out his hand, "Come on, I have something to show you." Younger Sherlock sighs and tugs at older Sherlock's sleeve when he doesn't move. "Come on, you're no fun when you're like this."

  Sherlock rises and takes his hand. Younger him smiles and begins to walk to the other end of the room. When they reach the wall, it disappears and they are in Sherlock's childhood bedroom. It was like a moment frozen in time. Sherlock's bed pushed against the wall and covered with books and test tubes. Papers littered the floor and hung from the flower wallpaper. He thinks back to when Mummy would check his room every other year and yell at him for destroying the 'lovely wallpaper' and how his floor looked like a 'nuclear disaster'. He watches his younger self crawl under his bed before running over to his desk on the other side of the room to scribble something down in his leather bound notebook. He stuffs the notebook into his small messenger bag and heads over to the door.

  "Don't dawdle old man, we have things to do and not a lot of time before your guard comes to awaken you."

  "I am awake."

  "Uh, don't tell me I get stupid when I get older." He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, "Right now, you are on the floor next to wall we went through to get here. " He raises his eyebrows and waves his hands as if to say 'duh'.

  "Shut up. Where are we going?"

  "Outside." Younger Sherlock pushes the door open and places his index finger over his lips. Older Sherlock furrows his brow before remembering. When he was younger, he used to sneak out to collect mould samples from the lake near his house, however Mycroft wasn't a light sleeper and would wake if he made too much noise. The pair of Sherlock's quietly make their way down the long corridor until they reach the stairs. Halfway down the stairs, young Sherlock speaks, "They took away Redbeard."

  "It'll be okay. You get to see him when you get older."

  They pause at the bottom of the stairwell and young Sherlock grasps his older self's hand. "I do?"

  "Yes."

  His eyes brighten and he begins to pull Sherlock to the main door. "Hurry up! We'll be late."

  "We didn't go through this door." Sherlock the younger stopped pulling his older self's arm and sighed.

  "We aren't going to collect mould. I have a surprise and the only way to get to it in time is to go through that door," he points to the large mahogany door, "So let's go!"

  "Okay, okay. Calm down. I was just making sure that you were right."

  "Since when am I wrong?" The front door opens and the front yard greets them. The sun was high in the sky and in the  distance Sherlock heard children playing. A long walk down the front path brings both Sherlock's to the edge of a rugby match. Children around the age of twelve and thirteen run around, screaming and cheering for their side to win. After a few minutes the younger Sherlock tugged Sherlock down so he could whisper in his ear.

  "Look at the boy in the red jersey with the number eighteen on the back. I'll think you'll recognize him." Sherlock's eyes dart from player to player until he sees him. Light blonde hair with pieces of dirt in it, face flushed from running in the sun. He pauses as one of his teammates scores and cheers, arms lifted in the air, smile gracing his features. Sherlock can't believe it.

  It's _John._

  "What is he doing here?" Sherlock hisses.

  "I brought him." Young Sherlock steps to the sideline where John and his friends are resting. After getting his attention, John follows young Sherlock and bring him to meet older Sherlock. John looks so young. Sherlock can recognize him from his eyes and the width of his shoulders and the small mole on the right side of his neck. Young Sherlock speaks again, "John, meet older me. Older me, meet young John."

  John extends his hand, just like the first time they met. Unlike the first time they met, John has a tan above his wrist, he doesn't lean slightly on his right leg, and he doesn't have a scar underneath his shirt. Sherlock shakes John's hand, feeling small clauses. _Clarinet._ He remembers John telling him about him playing once. _'I was atrocious. I can't believe they let me play for as long as they did. I was far better at rugby, but Mum wanted me to be well-rounded.'_

  John opens his mouth to speak but younger Sherlock beats him to it, "I'm off to collect mould samples from the lake. You two should head back inside. You have some things to _talk_ about."

  John seemed to blush,  but it was hard to tell, "You make it sound like I'm about to give him 'the birds and the bees' talk." Younger Sherlock scoffs and turns to run to the lake. John huffs, "I would apologize about him, but you are him, so you know."

  "Why did adolescent me bring you here?"

  John begins to walk past Sherlock toward the path leading back to the house, "Let's talk and walk. I don't want you to burn out here." Sherlock raises his eyebrows and John chuckles, "You, well, younger you told me that you burn easily and you are most likely not wearing any sunscreen. Come on." Sherlock nods and follows, smirking. They are halfway back to the house when John speaks.

  "Your childhood, like the rest of your visions, are death." Sherlock nods. "You cannot control what they do or what they say. They are free spirits." Sherlock nods again. "However, I am not dead."

  Sherlock stops dead in his tracks, "What do you mean?"

  "My older self is broken, I admit, but he never lost his childhood. That part of him isn't dead as much as it is repressed."

  "Does that mean that I can control you?"

  "Yes. For the most part. You can only control some of my thoughts." Sherlock gapes. "Try to change my appearance."

  Sherlock stared at John and thought about how he looked that last time he saw him, black slacks and a blue and red jumper. The John in front of him aged and for a second Sherlock thought of Irene and gasped and took a step back. John stopped changing, his body looked older but he was still dressed in his rugby uniform. "Sherlock?"

  "It's nothing," He concentrated and John finished changing.

  "See?" Even his voice had changed. "Let's get back inside. It's too hot out here to be wearing a jumper."

  Once back inside, Sherlock changed John again. John climbed the steps, oblivious to the changes being made. When he reached the top he looked down to find himself in a standard school uniform.

  "I don't -" John's eyes widen at the sound of his teenage voice, "I don't know whether to be nervous about you making me younger. Are you trying to taint me?" He winks before Sherlock hits the back of his head.

  "Just practicing."

  He hears John laughing and follow him down the hallway. They entered Sherlock's room and John closed the door behind him.

  "Why are you here?" Sherlock sweeps the papers and books off his bed and sits down. John plops down on Sherlock's swivel chair and rolls closer to him.

  "I am a vision you can control. You can bring me up at anytime you want to do anything you want." John's slacks change from khaki to black and back to khaki again.

  "I understand that, but why are you telling this to me now? I've known John for nearly ten months. My visions have taken a rest. You could have told me earlier when you could have been useful."

  "I will be useful, I just can't tell you why I will be right now."

  "Is it bad?"

  "That's up to you to decide." Sherlock nods and John rises out of his seat to sit next to Sherlock on the bed. "Any decision you make, vision me and real me will stand by you." He places his hand over Sherlock's and links their fingers together. His thumb runs over Sherlock's knuckles and Sherlock looks down at their joined hands. It was peaceful here, at his old home. John's voice breaks the silence.

  "Are you okay?"

  Sherlock doesn't look up, "Yes. Why wouldn't I be?"

  John chuckles, "Due to the fact that you just made my shirt disappeared -" Sherlock snaps his head up, eyes wide. His eyes rake over John's bare torso, tanned and fit. He coughed and looked away, but John caught his chin between his fingers. He leaned closer, lips brushing against Sherlock's as he spoke, "Don't be shy."

  John pressed their lips together and Sherlock closes his eyes. He feels John's hands on his chest, pushing him down to lay on the bed. Sherlock runs his hands from the waistband of John's shorts up his sides, over his shoulder blades and into his hair. John pulls back a centimeter to catch his breath. Sherlock opens his eyes and changes John's appearance to make him his current age. Leaning up, Sherlock captures John's lips once more. He can hear John groan low in his throat and Sherlock smirks.

  He lowers his hand to press John's left shoulder. _Bullet wound scar._ John pulls back and gasps. Sherlock's eyes fly open, "Are you okay?"

  John stares at him, lips red and hair a mess. He nods, "Why did you do that? The scar. It's an ugly part of me."

  "Without it, you wouldn't be you," Sherlock internally cringes at how cheesy that sounded but it was true. That scar was a part of John and every part of him was beautiful.

  John stares for a moment before smiling and kissing Sherlock and lowering his hips just so...

\---

  Sherlock wakes with a start at the sound of the guard banging the door. He jumps to his feet and runs to the side of his bed. He stares straight ahead as the guard looks over the room. The guard stops when he sees Sherlock and coughs, attempting to cover the blood that rushed to his cheeks.

  "Would you like to shower before your meal, Mr. Holmes?"

  Sherlock looks down, blushes, coughs and nods, "Yes, please."

\---


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So so so sorry for not updating sooner. I had band camp and stuff, but now is not a time for excuses!   
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

  John doesn't come after Sherlock's morning meal. He doesn't come after his afternoon walk down a guarded hallway. He doesn't come after his evening meal. Sherlock lays on his cot and stares at the lines that decorate the white ceiling. The papers under the mattress creak as he tosses and turns and stands and lays down again. He doesn't touch them.

  Saturday comes and Molly gives him a check-up. Sunday brings one of Mycroft's assistants to check on him.  A week passes.

  And then two.

  Three.

  A month.

  Two months.

  Everything returns to 'normal' in a sense. He sends his Monday's talking with Irene. Tuesday was sent ignoring or yelling at Henry. Magnussen was left to his rambling on Wednesday. Thursday he solved cold cases and Friday he tried to smell something besides chlorine.

  He life was like before. No John, no outside world. Just him and his visions trapped in four white walls and one window, too high to look out of. Sherlock tries to call out to the vision of John, but he hears no answer. He gives up after a week. Mycroft visits him every Sunday and asks him trivial questions about his well being. Sherlock remains silent. On the second week of the second month without John, Mycroft asks about Sherlock's visions.

  "Are they gone? Are they truly gone?"

  "Yes."

  "Even Gregory?"

  Sherlock looks at Mycroft's black shoes, covered in dirt residue number 62. Dirt that came from the grave just outside London where Lestrade lays. It's their anniversary.

  "He was the first to leave me."

\---

  "How is Sherlock doing?"

  Molly nearly spits out her coffee and coughs, "What?"

  John leans against the counter in the break room, "I asked how Sherlock was doing. I assume that since I'm not there, you are in charge of his check-ups, he likes you the most."

  Blood rushes up to Molly's cheeks and she shakes her head, "He doesn't like me." She pauses and takes another sip of her coffee, "And you already know that I can't tell you anything about his condition, patient privacy."

  "Oh come on, Molly, don't give me that! I was his doctor for ten months! I know more about his condition than all of his former doctors! It's not like I asked to be taken out of the position."

  "I can't tell you anything."

  "Molly..."

  "Stop John."

  John placed his mug on the white countertop and dropped to his knees in front of her, clasping his hands together, "Please, I'm practically begging here."

  Molly giggles, "John, get up, you look ridiculous."

  John jumps to his feet, "Is that a 'yes' to information?"

  "I honestly can't give you much because Sherlock," she moves a step closer and whispers, "he doesn't speak anymore. He doesn't answer questions. He doesn't even talk to his brother, he just recently spoke to him, but no more than two sentences."

  "How do you know about him speaking to his brother?"

  "A week after you left, Mycroft ordered that cameras be installed into his room."

  "Do you think that Sherlock knows?"

  "Definitely, I think that's why he isn't speaking. Sometimes he lets a few words slip but then he immediately shuts up. Is it true that Sherlock isn't seeing any visions?"

  "Yes. He was doing so well. Why would  Mycroft make him stay if he is obviously better."

  "Maybe he doesn't want him to get better, to keep him under his thumb." Molly raises his eyebrows and takes another swallow of coffee.

  _Or maybe he knows that the reports I submitted are full of lies._ "Maybe." John looks at the security camera at the far corner of the room and stares at it, "Maybe."

\---

  Sherlock's fingers itch to touch the papers that lay under the mattress. That was all he had left of John. The information about the outside world that he had sorted in his brain. He hears Magnussen on the other side of the room mumbling.

  _"The Prime Minister's office has a secret basement that also doubles as a bomb shelter. Putin prefers a martini to a glass of vodka. Betty White likes her vodka with lots of lemon juice, what an interesting woman..."_

  Sherlock wishes very much to tell Magnussen all of the secrets he memorized from his brother's laptop that day he broke into Mycroft's secret office that would survive a nuclear disaster. He turns his head to face the small black hole in the top corner of the wall. Mycroft thinks that he is clever, but Sherlock could tell the moment he walked into the room that cameras had been installed. His cot had been moved slightly, luckily it had not been turned over, and he could clearly see the four black holes in the top corners of his white palace.

  Sherlock turned and felt the papers crinkle under him. He feels himself relax at the soft sound. The only thing of John he had left.  He closed his eyes and hoped that his subconscious would concoct some images of John for a while.

_Eighty-nine days._

\---

  John walks outside on his break on Friday. The cool breeze seems to lead him to a building he hadn't been to for three months, Sherlock's facility. He wraps his arms around himself when a shiver wracks through his body. For a split second, he remembers standing in the same spot not long ago and being dragged out of the building.

  _"You are not allowed in this facility."_

_"Do not return until you are told to do so."_

John snaps out his memory when he reaches the glass doors that lead to Sherlock, the most interesting person he had ever met in his life. He thinks about the blog his therapist, Ella, made him make. He was supposed to write down what happened in his life. It was going to help his transition from the battlefield back to civilian life. He placed his hand on the cold metal of the door handle. It had taken him over a year to figure it out, but he didn't want to go back to civilian life.

  He wanted the battlefield.

  With Sherlock he saw the battlefield Sherlock once saw. He felt the adrenaline rush through his veins as he lied on all the reports and lied to Mycroft who had 'more power than a human should'.  It was amazing and if there wasn't a patient privacy policy in place, he would write down all of Sherlock's adventures and place them on his blog.

  He pulled the handle but the door was locked, which was confusing, since it was working hours and he could see some people inside. He turned his head to see a small black card scanner next to the door. He pulls his doctor's badge out of his pocket and scans it. The machine beeps and speaks.

  "YOU DO NOT HAVE ACCESS TO THIS FACILITY. PLEASE LEAVE IMMEDIATELY."

  John furrows his brow in confusion. These scanners weren't in place when he worked with Sherlock. _Mycroft._ _He did this to stop me. Smart man._

  He stops his thinking when he hears footsteps coming up the path. Quickly, he runs and stands behind the large oak tree that stands in front of the building. A nurse, he didn't know her name, steps up to the doors and scans her card. The scanner glows green and he hears the mechanic click of the door opening. John watches her go in and then begins to walk back to the main building.

  John had noticed that her card was different than the standard badge that would unlock medical rooms and some dangerous patient's rooms. It was a deep blue instead of white. You couldn't enter Sherlock's facility without that card. He needed a card.  John smirked as he thought of how to get into Sherlock's building, without stealing a card.

  Because stealing was for the lower class criminals.

\---

  The first thing Sherlock notices is the weightlessness feeling that surrounds his whole body. He can't hear anything and slowly opens his eyes. He is surrounded by greenish blue water. Light from above refracts and danced across the floor of the pool.

  _The pool?_

  Sherlock's eyes widen and he begins to push himself up but it feels as if his ankle are tied down to the ground. His arms feel like lead. He opens his mouth, but chlorine water rushes in and he coughs and sputters in an attempt to get air into his lungs.

  "When I was fifteen I worked as a life guard at the local pool."

  Sherlock stops struggling and feels air fill his lungs.

  "John-"

  "Don't speak," John says but without moving his lips, "Speak with your mind."

  Sherlock nods dumbly. Why was John here? And why so long after the 'real' John left? After all the times he called for John and now here he is. It's unreal, unbelievable. Sherlock swallows and begins to speak in his mind to John.

  "Why are you here?" Sherlock had recently discovered the ability to speak with his mind to his visions. He couldn't believe that he hadn't realized it earlier. The visions were in his mind, why not communicate with them with his mind. It was helpful since Mycroft had installed the cameras. He could still talk to his visions so he wouldn't be bored, but without detection.

  John tilts his head up and stares at the surface of the pool. Sherlock can faintly hear the sounds of police sirens. Red and blue flash against the water. "You have less than a minute until you are rescued."

  Sherlock looks at John more carefully. John floats crossed-legged in front of Sherlock, clad in red swimming trunks. John looks young, his hair light and body tan.  Sherlock tries to piece together why he would be here, why John is here.

  "Your pulse is elevated. Don't be scared." John's voice breaks through his thoughts.  "Forty five seconds now." John pauses and moves closer to Sherlock, "When I was fifteen I was a lifeguard at the local swimming pool. One day, a boy fell in and he didn't know how to swim. I jumped in and performed CPR and he survived. He happened to be my neighbor. Every day for the next month, his mother would leave a batch of cookies at my doorstep as a thank you. They were delicious."

  All of a sudden there is a muffled splash from above and someone's hands grab Sherlock under his armpits. Sherlock feels his body go limp as he is pulled up. His eyes flutter close, but he sees John follow him up.

  He feels nothing for a few moments except hard concrete under his back. All of a sudden, air is filling his lungs and he opens his eyes. Above him he sees John, still in his swimming trunks. John smiles and tweaks Sherlock's nose. "I like double chocolate chip cookies." He winks and then he is gone. The person above him is someone else, a first responder.

  Sherlock pushes himself up, almost slamming his head with the first responder sitting next to him. "John!" he yells. He attempts to stand up but his legs give out under him. "John!"

  Lestrade runs and stops in front of Sherlock. He crouches down to look at Sherlock in the eye. "Stop yelling, Sherlock, you are alright."

  "Where is John?"

  "John who?"

  "John Watson, you idiot!!"

  "I don't know who you are talking about?"

  "He was just here. He was in the pool with me and he performed CPR on me." Sherlock pushes Lestrade and stumbles to his feet. "He was in there," he points at the water.  He begins to walk around the pool. Behind him he can faintly hear Lestrade talking to him, but he ignores him. He is almost to the other end of the pool when he sees it. A silver tie pin on the ground with the letter M engraved on it. _Moriarty._

  "He took him!" Sherlock spins to see Lestrade right behind him. "Moriarty, he took John! We need to find him."

  Lestrade grabs Sherlock by his shoulders. "You need to calm down and come with me."

  Sherlock tries to shake off his hands, but Lestrade only grips harder, "No, we need to find John."

  "Sherlock, John isn't here. I don't know who John is. And John isn't here! Has never been here!"

  Sherlock wants to speak, wants to yell, wants John back, but all he has is Lestrade and damp clothes. His eyelids begin to feel heavy and he begins to fall. This time he didn't fall into water and there was no explosion. This time he fell back into his room and the only explosion was the one of the chaos he left behind.

\---

  Redbeard isn't there on Saturday. His familiar scent of freshly cut grass and mud does not perfume the air and Sherlock cannot get the scent of chlorine out of his nostrils. Molly comes and gives him a check-up. He remains silent.

  _Ninety two days._

\---

  John wakes on Sunday with the sudden urge to go home. To his old home. It doesn't take him long to arrive at the small suburb, not far from London. He walks down the sidewalk until he comes to 483 Penny St. He stares at the house, new paint and new shudders, he notes. He wonders who lives in the house now. Is it a family? Are they happy?

  John moved to 483 Penny St. at the age of eight, shortly after his father died. He was a shy boy but the other boys on the street quickly got him out of his shell. He loved it here. The sun never seemed to set and the days were endless. As long as he wasn't near Harry and his mother when they were mad, he lived a happy and carefree life. John continues down the road and finds the pool he worked at as a life guard during his teenage years. He smiles and remembers the one boy he saved, David, he recalls. His mother left him a batch of cookies on his doorstep everyday for a month. He began to sell them at school to make some money and the rest he split between himself and Harry.

  Double chocolate chip was his favorite.

\---


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, quick note for you guys. Based on how I am planning the story and such, our time with Sherlock and John will only be for about two more chapters and then an epilogue. This is just for you to know.   
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy this chapter.

  The sun rises high in the sky outside the only window in Sherlock's white prison. After Sherlock returned from his afternoon walk, Irene had disappeared from the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He paced around the perimeter of the room, trying to settle the never ending buzz in his mind. The hairs on the back of his neck rose and his shoulders stiffened. Constantly, he looked over his shoulder to see if someone was following him, but no one was there. He continues around the room until he begins to feel his head spin.

  The room was changing.

  White floors disappeared and were replaced with pavement. The ceiling opened up and the sky was revealed. The walls become houses and cars. Sherlock lowers himself onto his bed and waits for the change to be over. He lies in the middle of the street. The sound of a car horn makes Sherlock leap to his feet. He steps onto the sidewalk and takes in his surroundings. He has been here before, he knows it.  

  _The Woman._

  He walks a few meters before he is standing in front of the house. It is white with a small porch in front of it. Five white steps lead up to the deck and then the door. Small white columns add a sense of sophistication to the small home. Sherlock walks further down, remembering a case from years ago. It was case Mycroft gave to him and in Buckingham Palace nonetheless. He smirks at the memory of arriving in a sheet. No need to get dressed for anything less than a seven.   

  He turns into the alley between each group of tightly packed houses. A man sits against the wall, smoking a cheap cigarette. Sherlock looks over him quickly, _money problems, alcoholic and smoker, owns two dogs, recently caught his wife cheating on him. He's angry, pent up emotions._

_Perfect._

Sherlock shakes his head and stumbles over to him, acting drunk. He leans down and plucks the cigarette out of the man's mouth and takes a drag. He nearly chokes on the disgusting taste of it before he drops it to the ground and snuffs it out with his shoe. He stubbles back and then forward again before addressing the man.

  "Your- your wife is an excellent shag." Sherlock whistles and gestures largely, "What a whore."

  The man shot up and stepped into Sherlock's personal space. "If ya keep talking like that, you're gonna get real messed up."

  Sherlock steps back and points to his cheek and slurs his words, "Punch me then. I'm not 'fraid of you and your whore of a wife."

  The man sneers and clenches his fist and pulls back to swing.

  And then Sherlock hears a voice, John's voice, "What did you say?"

  Sherlock hears himself speak but his voice and John's voice sound distant, "I said 'punch me'."

  John again, "I always hear 'punch me' when you speak but it's typically subtext."  

  Sherlock groans in annoyance and his vision blurs and he sees his fist connect with John's jaw. He pulls back and gasps as his knuckles burn. John turns, the look in his eyes are dark and nearly murderous. John pulls back his fist and just as it nears Sherlock's face, John changes back to the man in the alley. He falls to the ground at the impact of the hit. He begins to move away but the man isn't finished with him yet. He jumps onto Sherlock and begins to hit him more. Pain racks through his body and he struggles not to cry out. He squirms underneath the man's weight in an attempt to get free, but the man is too heavy. His vision begins to blur and darken around the edges.

  "John!" he yells.

  He is there in an instant. The man above him is being pulled back and John forces him face down into the concrete. He looks at Sherlock, still sitting on the ground. "Are you okay? I hope he didn't hit you too badly."

  Sherlock places his hand up to his face and touches several area, pulling back a hand free of blood, "I'll be okay."

  John nods and hold straddles the man and holds his hands together with one hand while trying to pull off his belt. Once his belt slips out of the loops he ties the man's hands together and moves closer to Sherlock to look over his injuries. "Nothing major. The bruises will last a while though. Hope you don't have an upcoming date."

  Sherlock thinks of Irene's house and the pictures he was supposed to obtain. "I do, but the bruises will make it better."

  John smiles, "Funny date you got." He turns back to see the man still lying on the ground, shouting profanities at both him and Sherlock. "When I was twenty-two I was walking home from work when I saw a woman being beaten by a man in an alleyway. I was a fool and jumped on the man and pried him off the woman and held him down until the police arrived. He didn't even land on punch on me. The woman was very kind and thanked me, and the police as well. When I think back on that, I realized how stupid I was, I mean, he could have had a knife or a weapon and could have severely injured me or the woman. But in the end it was okay." He looked at Sherlock and then over his shoulder, "Looks like your date has arrived. She's a pretty one."

  Sherlock looks over his shoulder to see a woman with ginger hair walk down the steps of Irene Adler's house. "That's the woman's assistant, and she isn't my date. Dating really isn't my area, anyways."

  John smiles and winks, "Whatever you say, just make sure to take her to dinner first, Sherlock."

  John begins to fade away and Sherlock stumbles to his feet and is greeted by Mrs Adler's assistant, Kate. He walks into the house with her with his new disguise of man who was just mugged. He takes a deep breath and tries to let the tension seep away from him.

  _In, out, in, out._

\---

  Sherlock wakes in his room at Baker Street. He moves slowly out from under his covers. His mind feels mushy. It felt as if someone had taken out his brain and replaced it with marshmallows. His foot gets caught in the duvet and he topples to the ground.

  "John," he weakly says, throat sore.

  His door opens and warm hands lift him of the ground and drops him onto the duvet. He begins to mumble nonsense into his pillow, feeling his eyelids droop. Hands push his legs onto the bed and he is covered once again.

  "I'll be in the living room. If you need someone just yell." He hears John's voice and it seems to be getting further away from him.

  "Why would I need you?" Sherlock feels his body nearly melt into the mattress. His vision begins to turn black. He tries to speak again but his jaw feels locked. His mind finally catches up with his mind and he tries to turn to face John, trying to catch his voice. He didn't mean what he said. Is that why John left? He didn't show how much he meant to him? No, no, this isn't supposed to happen.

  "No reason at all." John's voice drifts away and Sherlock faintly hears the sound of a door closing.

\---

  John reads the newspaper on his way home. Nothing really Earth-shattering graces the papers. A robbery at a small shop, a singer released a new album, politicians doing their political things. One article stuck out to John. It was about a politician and his former wife supposedly  getting back together after both of them were caught cheating on each other with the same woman, Irene Adler.

  John blinks twice before he places the name to a face, or a day. Irene Adler, the woman Sherlock saw on Monday. He closes the newspaper and sets it on his lap. He look at the top of the page and sees the date. It's a Monday.

  Funny that.

\---

  Sherlock's limbs feel like Jello for the rest of the day. He continues to tell himself that it was just a vision. A memory that came back and was changed based on recent experiences. The only thing that makes Sherlock worried is the vision of John. Are his stories true? Is that John telling the truth?

   What if John is dead?

  He hasn't seen him in ninety-four days.

  _Please come back._

_Don't be dead._

\---

  Sherlock smirks as he passes through the gates of the Baskerville Military Base. Mycroft thinks that he is smart by suggesting that Sherlock start solving the cases people leave him on his website. He places Mycroft's entrance card to military bases into his coat pocket. Bluebell the glowing bunny which disappeared from little Kirsty. A ridiculous case to fend away the boredom. He parks the Jeep and exits. He hadn't walked more than ten meters when he is stopped by a Corporal. Sherlock flashes the badge in front of the man's face and tries to continue forward. The Corporal stands in his way.

  "Excuse me, Mr Holmes, but I need to know why you are here."

  Sherlock opens his mouth to speak when another voice cuts him off, "Sorry, Corporal.."

  The man turns and faces whoever was standing next to Sherlock.

  "Lyons," he answers politely.

  "Corporal Lyons," Sherlock turns his head to see John standing next to him. He sees John fish his wallet out of his pocket and shows his military ID to the Corporal, "I'm Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

  Corporal Lyons snaps his heels together and salutes John. John salutes back before speaking again, "Mr Holmes is my associate and we do checks of military bases."

  "We just recently had an inspection."

  "Our checks are unscheduled and unannounced to any superiors on base. We are here to see the base in its natural environment. This type of check can reveal much more than others can."

  The Corporal nods his head in agreement, completely believing John's lie. "Right this way, sirs." He salutes John once again and turns and leads them to the main building. Once inside Sherlock and John walk down the hallway alone. Sherlock hears his phone beep.

  _What is going on? - MH_

  He smirks and then addresses John, "Haven't pulled rank in a while have you?"

  John huffs a breath, "Not in ages."

  "How'd it feel?"

  "Bloody amazing."

\---

  John disappears after a short ride in the elevator. Sherlock spends the rest of his of time recounting the memories of his trip to the military base. Darkness settles around the town as he ventures into the woods armed with only a flashlight. He hears a growl behind him. He spins around and points his flashlight at a line of trees. Another growl causes goose bumps to rises on his arms. He feels his breath catch in his throat and he turns and runs out of the forest. He doesn't stop running until he is back at the inn.

\---

  Sherlock is back at the base. Fourteen texts and twenty three missed calls from Mycroft. He leans back in the chair and looks at the security footage of the main laboratory. He watches the man from town he convinced to help him in his experiment. He runs scared from the imaginary hound. Sherlock plays the sounds of a wolf over the loudspeaker and sees the man sprint into one of the open cages. He speaks with a shaky voice to Sherlock over the phone.

  "This is a bit not good, Sherlock."

  Sherlock nearly drops the phone and turns to find John sitting on the table right behind him. Sherlock ends the call. On the screen behind him, the man panics and tries to call Sherlock again, but Sherlock ignores the call and stands and walks toward John.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "What are _you_ doing here?" John retorts.

  "You know why I'm here. This is my memory. You shouldn't be here."

  " _You_ seem to forget that I am a free spirit. I can do as I please."

  "Then come back. The real you."

  "I can't. Not now at least."

  Sherlock looks over John's features. He looks younger, wrinkles around his eyes gone. He estimates that John is between twenty five and twenty eight right now. "You are wasting my time. Leave."

  "Stop changing your mind Sherlock, if you want something, or _someone_ , you have to be committed."

  Sherlock scoffs, "Like you have a great track record. Three girlfriends, all of them dumped you, in the time you became my doctor."

  "And now I'm not your doctor."

  "What is that supposed to mean?"

  "That means that I could have moved on. Found a woman." John begins to shift and change. His features become feminine and his voice is higher. It sounds like Irene's, "White picket fence, 2.5 children, married for life."

  Irene and John's face become one and the body in front of Sherlock won't stop repeating the last sentence. Sherlock stumbles backwards and trips over his chair, landing hard on the cold tile. The Irene-John figure slides gracefully off the desk and strolls toward Sherlock. He scrambles back, fear coursing through his veins like it had done that night in the woods. Sherlock hits the wall, painfully smacking his head against it. Irene-John moves closer until they stand right in front of him. The figure leans down and whispers.

  "Choose a side, Sherlock."

  The figure leans back and it's face changes. It's Irene and then Henry. In an instant he sees the face of Magnussen and then Greg's smile followed by Moriarty's sly grin. Lastly was John's face. His face lasted the longest and he smiled at Sherlock. Sherlock begins to lean forward to get closer to John, his body like a magnet.

  All of a sudden, John's face and body become a black hound. It growls and Sherlock is frozen solid as it leaps at him. Sherlock feels pain ripple from his head to toe as the hound bites and claws at his body, or was it Henry.

  Or maybe it was John.

\---

  Sherlock is floating again.

  "Keep your eyes closed," he hears. He feels a hand on his right arm, "It's me, John."

  Sherlock begins to open his eyes but a hand comes over and forces them shut, "Listen to me. It's better this way."

  "Why?"

  "You'll understand when you wake. Just stay silent and don't open your eyes," Sherlock feels John's hand disappear from his eyelids. "I'm going to tell you a - a story, yes a story will do."

  Sherlock can faintly hear John's breathing. It's shaky and he is trying hard to keep it under control. He's scared. Why?

  "When I was twenty seven, I was dating this girl named Louise. She was beautiful, I was gonna marry her one day," Sherlock cringes internally at the thought of John marrying someone and leaving him, "But I was drafted and I wanted to help the war effort. She couldn't handle it and she broke it off. I didn't understand why. I was the one going to war, she was just staying behind, she would have been fine." John pauses.

  Sherlock thinks of being left behind by John. Being left in his prison while John lived in the 'real' world and was most likely pestered by Mycroft and other meaningless beings.

  "Anyways, I was moving my stuff out of her flat and I came one morning to find that her door was locked and I had already given her my key. When I knocked on the door I got no answer so I was surprised. I kept knocking until I heard the fire alarm. I began to bang the door and then I realized, the door was really hot. Me, being the stupid git I was, knocked down the door and found that her flat was the cause of the fire. It had started in the kitchen. Louise had passed out near the kitchen. I picked her up and left the flat." John pauses again. "I lost nearly everything I owned that day. When Louise was released from the hospital, and her parents heard that I had saved her, they gave me two thousand pounds." John whistles. Sherlock imagines that John would also run his hand through his blonde hair at the same time, "I left for Afghanistan with a pretty stable bank account and one less girlfriend."

  "You saved three lives." Sherlock murmurs. He feels his body begin to have weight and he can feel the burn of light hitting his eyelids, "If you are telling me these stories in order, you have saved three lives in total before you left for Afghanistan."

  He hears John chuckle, "Looks like I did. Time for you to wake up now. I'll be back soon, real soon."

  His voice drifts away like the smoke from the fire he braved years ago.

\---

  John knows that something has gone wrong with Sherlock the moment Molly walks into the break room on Tuesday afternoon. John fills up her mug with the freshly brewed coffee and waits for her to drink a few gulps before he asks.

  "What happened with Sherlock?"

  "How did you - never mind. It's nothing."

  "It's definitely something. What happened to him?"

  Molly dumps herself ungracefully into the nearest chair and rubs her temple. John sits across from her. The small wrinkles around her eyes and mouth had become slightly more predominant. Her shoulders were stiff and see looked like she was on the verge of tears. She finishes one cup and John pours her another before she speaks in a hushed tone.

  "He had a seizure."

  "Oh, God."

  Molly stares down at the mug in her hands and speaks quietly, "He was just lying on his cot and all of a sudden he begins to shake and when we got to him he was choking on his own vomit. It was so scary. I thought that he was going to die." A single tear makes its way down Molly's cheek. John reaches out and brushes the droplet off.

  "What is wrong with him, John? When you were there his medical reports were normal and he was happy. He actually smiled at me. Not one of his forced and fake smiles, a real one. What happened?"

  "I don't know, Molly."

  "You need to come back, Sherlock needs you."

  "I can't. I'm not even allowed into the facility."

  "I know."

  They sit in silence for a few moments before John speaks again, "How is he holding up now?"

  "We've stabilized him and he'll be staying in the ward for twenty four hours, just like when he passed out."

  John nods. He has to come back and soon. _In a few days, after they move him back to his room._

\---

   Sherlock wakes to see Mycroft hovering over him. He groan and shifts slightly to take in his surroundings. After a few moment he realizes something, this isn't his room.

  He's in the ward.

  "Why am I here?" he croaks. Mycroft hands him a glass of water.

  "You had a seizure."

  Sherlock thinks briefly about his vision about his time at Baskerville. He takes another swallow of water. When the hound attacked him, he must had started the seizure. "How long have I been out?"

  "Just under four hours."

  "What day is it?"

  "Tuesday."

  Sherlock hums in answer and lays back against the pillows and closes his eyes. John's voice rings out in his head.

  _"I'll be back soon, real soon."_

_Ninety-five days._

\---

  Sherlock is awoken and picks at his morning meal. He lays down stares out the one window in the ward. He watches the path as doctors and nurses walk into the other facility. He wonders if one of the passing strangers is John.

\---

  John rolls over in his bed to find another body next to him. _Jeanette._ He hums, smiles and wraps his arms around her warm figure. Jeanette giggles softly as he presses kisses to the nape of her neck.

  "We have to get up John."

  "Why?" he whines and pulls her closer. She laughs and wiggles out of his grip.

  "We have to go to work."

  John sits up and watches her walk around the room, gathering clothes to dress in. "Why do we have to get up so bloody early?"

  "Because the moment Bill's shift is up, he falls asleep and I need to be there to one, obtain my chair, and two, make sure Holmes is under a watchful and awake eye." John flops back down onto the bed and groans. Jeanette laughs again and sits on the edge of the bed and brushes her fingers through John's hair, "Come on, get up." John pushes himself up before dropping himself back onto the mattress. After a second try he gets up and begins to get dressed as Jeanette disappears into the bathroom to put on her makeup.

  Jeanette calls out from the bathroom as John buttons his shirt, "Don't forget that our one month anniversary is on Saturday!"

  John smiles and replies playfully, "It nearly slipped my mind!"

  "Good thing I reminded you!" She steps out of the bathroom and wraps her arms around John and kisses him, "What would you do without me?"

  "I don't know, luckily I don't have to worry about that anymore." He smiles.

  They go to work together and at the path they part ways. Jeanette to Sherlock's facility and John to the main building. Deep down John knows that what he is doing is wrong, but he doesn't care.

  He remembers the tale Sherlock told him about catching Charles Augustus Magnussen. He had to break into his office but only Magnussen and his assistant could access his office. Sherlock met his assistant and began relations with her. On the night Magnussen would be out of his office, Sherlock stole the access card of a janitor and pressed it to his cell phone for thirty seconds, deactivating the card. Magnussen's assistant, Janine, had to then identify who was trying to enter the office. When she saw it was Sherlock she was so surprised and even more surprised when he proposed to her. He was allowed up to the office just like that. In the end, Sherlock found out that Magnussen had information about politicians in another place and Janine found out that Sherlock's proposal was a fake.

  Under closer inspection, the device Mycroft installed to lock the building was similar to the one Sherlock described Magnussen to have. All he would have to do is deactivate his card and then Jeanette would let him in.

  _Saturday._

\---

  Sherlock falls asleep shortly after his afternoon walk. He awakens outside Appledore, Magnussen's private home. He feels his coat whip around him. Turning his head, he sees that he is surrounded by helicopters. A voice booms out of a speaker.

  "SHERLOCK HOLMES, YOU ARE UNDER ARREST. GET ON YOUR KNEES."

  Sherlock can hear Magnussen chuckle next to him. Sherlock snaps his head to face him and sneers. "Looks like this is goodbye, Sherlock Holmes."

  The person speaking from the helicopter repeats his orders when Sherlock doesn't obey. Sherlock feels anger seep through his veins at the remembrance of this moment not so long ago. He takes a deep breath and pulls out the gun he had in his coat and pointed it at Magnussen.

  "Merry Christmas!" He shouts and then time slows. The wind stops and he feels someone next to him.

  "Shoot."

  "John," Sherlock breaths.

   "Why aren't you shooting him?"

  "I don't know. I shoot him in real life."

  "It isn't that hard." John shifts behind Sherlock and presses his chest against Sherlock's back. John's right arm comes up and mimics the position Sherlock's arm is in. His calloused hand wraps around the back of Sherlock's and his index finger overlaps Sherlock's over the trigger. Sherlock's breath hitches slightly and his pulse races.

  "Have you ever killed a man, John?"

  "Yes."

  "Tell me about it."

  "Um - okay. It's not the best story in the world but fine." Johns breath ghosts over Sherlock's shoulder. "During my tour in Afghanistan, the base we were staying at was attacked by some rouge Afghans. Most of my group was injured or killed. I was hiding and helping the injured for many hours. Just as the sun began to set I was working on a man, I forget his name. He wasn't hurt too badly so I was just patching him up when a lone enemy came up to me." Sherlock felt John shiver and his hand shakes slightly against his. John continues to talk.

  "He spoke to me in broken English and demanded that I stop what I was doing and come with him. I was already tired and hungry and I was about to pass out. I continued to work on my teammate even when he and the enemy told me to stop. The enemy eventually cocked his gun and I pulled out mine and told him to back away and when he wouldn't-" John stop talking. His voice had begun to sound weak as if he was on the verge of tears. John swallows.

  "I shot him." John's voice sounds hard. Sherlock feels John press his finger which in turned pulled the trigger. Magnussen fell to the ground in a heap and John's presence disappeared from Sherlock. He dropped to his knees and threw the gun blindly to his right, raising his arms in surrender.

  Mycroft's voice booms from the speakers.

  "DO NOT SHOOT SHERLOCK HOLMES. I REPEAT, DO NOT SHOOT."

\---

  Sherlock's eyes open suddenly and he quickly sits up in the bed. He is still in the ward, he notes. He is a flurry of movement. He takes the IV out of his arm and rips off the white circles that take his heartbeat and blood pressure. He stumbles out of his bed, using his sheet to cover his nude form.

  "John!" he yells.

  Nurses and doctors begin to stream into his room. One of the stronger doctors grab Sherlock by his arms and pulls him back to the bed. "John!" he shouts and fights against the man's hands. He comes loose and goes a few steps before another doctor has him.

  "Put him out, damn it!"

  A nurse, Molly, he sees fumbles slightly with a needle before sticking it into his arm. His eyelids begin to droop and his body goes limp in the doctor's arms. He doesn't remember much after that.

\---

  "...and then when he woke up he was getting out of his bed and screaming, Mr Holmes."

  "What did he say, Molly?"

  "'John'."

\---


	10. Chapter 10

  "...and then when he woke up he was getting out of his bed and screaming."

  "What did he say, Molly?"

  "'John'."

\---

  _John killed someone._

_John saved someone._

_John killed._

_John saved._

_John is a demon._

_John is an angel._

_John._

_Come back._

\---

  "In your opinion, Ms. Hooper, what do you believe should be done about Sherlock?"

  "I believe that John should come back and help Sherlock. He improved so much under his care, the reports don't lie."

  "However, Ms. Hooper, my dear brother is a manipulative man, is he not?"

  "I haven't seen any evidence of that."

  "Well, he is a very conniving man and will do anything in his power to get out of the hospital and back into society. Now, Dr. Watson, he is a good man, correct?"

  "One of the best I have ever met."

  "Do you think that maybe he was tricked by my brother to falsify those reports because maybe Sherlock promised him something?"

  "Like what?"

  "I don't know, money, sex. People like Dr. Watson can be easily motivated by such mundane things."

  "John would never fall for that."

  "How much do you really know about John, Ms. Hooper?"

  "Not much actually."

  "Did you know that he served in the army?"

  "No."

  "And that he shot a man and killed him while operating on a patient in battle."

  "No, but if the man was the enemy--"

  "There is a lot you don't know about Dr. John Watson, and the more you know the less you would trust him. John Watson will not be Sherlock's doctor. Not now, not ever. Understood?"

  "Yes Mr. Holmes."

\---

  It's raining on Thursday. Sherlock lays in the overly comfy bed in the ward and listens to the sound of rain pattering against the window. He hears the deep breaths of Billy, the man who typically watches Sherlock through security footage now sits mere meters away from him. He sighs and closes his eyes and wishes for sleep, or a change of guard, whichever came first. He doesn't know how much time passes before another person enters the room, the sound of high heels signifying her arrival.

  "Your shift is up Billy."

  There is a brief pause and the sound of Billy rising from his seat, "You're a few minutes late, what's your excuse this time."

  "Nothing, just my boyfriend being a lazy git. Now come on, up and out of here, I'll try not to be late again."

  "Tell that John-fellow of yours to wake up earlier or I'll have some words with him about punctuality."

  The woman giggles, "Yes, sir."

  "Have a nice day, Jeanette."

  "You too."

  Sherlock hears Billy's footsteps disappear and the rustling of clothes and a bag as Jeanette settles in her seat. His nose crinkles slightly as he smells a distinct perfume. A cologne in fact.

  John's cologne.

  It was like a vision, but it wasn't. The smell was very faint and only appeared the moment Jeanette walked into the room. And then what Billy had said about her 'John-fellow'. Sherlock knows that John is a common name but the cologne and his name. It couldn't be true.

  It couldn't be.

  But it was.

  _John was alive._

_John was dead._

_John is a paradox._

_John is never coming back._

\---

  Sherlock wakes to scent of rain and freshly cut grass. He opens his eyes and finds himself surrounded by people. _Police-people_.

  His eyes quickly take in his surrounds and it takes him a few moments to figure out where his is.

   He's at Lestrade's funeral.

  The sounds of sniffling and speeches about how 'wonderful and brave and patient' he was went over his head as he focused on only one thing, Mycroft. His body was rigid and his eyes showed no emotion. Deep down, Sherlock knew that Mycroft was suffering. Losing the one person in the world he loved and cared for reasons other than family relation. This was making him weak and vulnerable, but knowing Mycroft, he wouldn't show any emotion or ask for comfort. No, that comfort was gone and was being lowered six feet into the ground.

  Sherlock turned his head and stared at Mycroft's sharp profile. He could see slight bags under his eyes and his lips were curved downward. His eyes scanned over every wrinkle, line, and bag on Mycroft's pitiful face for long minutes before it began to slowly shift to another person. The sky began to clear and the sun shone bright. Mycroft's hair turned a light blonde and he shrunk to the size of a boy.

  _John._

Sherlock blinks rapidly in disbelief. "John?" he breathes.

  "Daddy's gone. He is gonna be gone a for a good long while, won't he?" John doesn't look at Sherlock. Sherlock turns his head to see where John is looking. He finds himself face to face with another funeral. John is addressing a group of people, family friends, he thinks. Most of them have their mouths and faces covered with their hands, trying to will away the tears. He quickly picks out the face of John's mother and John's older sister, Harriet. John stands a few feet from the edge of the open grave, box already lowered into the ground.

  "But it's okay, I know that. Daddy said that one day we will meet again because if two people love each other so much, they will find their way back to each other, no matter the obstacles put in their path. And I know this is true because Daddies don't lie. That's right. So it's all fine because day we will all see each other again. Yup, there's no reason to cry." John sniffles and rubs his nose with the back of his hand, "No reason at all to cry."

  John walks forward and begins to throw handfuls of dirt into the grave. "Nope, just have to keep moving, yes sir, that's what Daddy always said and Daddies don't lie, do they? No not at all." He continues to throw dirt, his small limb shaking from trying to hold back his tears. He begins to throw the handfuls of dirt with more force, still talking about his father and how 'Daddies never lie'. Eventually his sister runs up to his and pulls him away and hold him to her chest.

  "John, you need to stop. It's okay to cry. You can cry, it's all okay." She sits on the ground and John sits in her lap and lets himself cry. The vision begins to blur, as if clouded by tears.

  "Daddy said that he would never leave me, but that isn't true, is it. And Daddies aren't supposed to lie, they aren't. And he did. Why, Harry, why?"

\---

  Sherlock sees black for a long time. All he hears is the sound of John's voice. His young voice calling out to his father. His young voice yelling at Harry. His young voice telling his mother to put down the bottle.

  His young voice singing himself 'Happy Birthday' when he turned nine.

  _John was fine._

_John was broken._

_John would come back again._

\---

  Sherlock wakes with tears in his eyes and Mycroft standing over him.

  "Bad dream, brother dear?"

  "No," he wipes at his eyes. "Why are you here? Don't you have some countries to run?"

  "Hmm. No, can't a man visit his brother."

  "Not if the man is you and the brother is me."

  "What a shame. Have a good day then, brother mine."

  Mycroft is about to reach the door when Sherlock speaks again, "It's okay to cry. It's perfectly fine."

  "Of course it is." Mycroft replies with a tight smile and exits the room.

  It had become dark outside but the rain had not ceased and Jeanette was gone.

  "It's all fine."

\---

  "Watson."

  "Good evening, Dr. Watson."

  "Ah, Mycroft, long time no see, or, talk. What have I done to get a call from you this time?"

  "Nothing in the particular but I was just wondering about your girlfriend."

  "Jeanette?"

  "Yes."

  "What about her?"

  "Nothing really, but does she know about your military service?"

  "Yes. Why--"

  "What about your time with Sherlock?"

  "Yes, she knows about that. Why are you--"

  "Hmm. Thank you. It's been a nice chat, have wonderful evening Dr. Watson."

  "Wait-- Oh you bastard!"

\---

  "Open up, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock opens his mouth and Molly looks down his throat. She then checks his eyes with her small flashlight. "Looks good, Sherlock. We'll have you moved back to your room in just a few minutes, alright?"

  He nods and stares blankly at the wall in front of him. He was going back to his cell, his palace, his confinement. He breathes deeply and tries think of something other than the white walls of his cell. Horses, soil, mass homicide, flying, anything to distract his mind.

  The move to his room was easy. Two guards would be posted at either end of the hallway with security footage equipment so they also could see into his room at all times. This was so if another seizure occurred, attention would come within seconds of its starting.  

  He walked around the perimeter of the room until he felt back at home. He jumped up on the cot and then off of it before lying down and closing his eyes.

  This time, no visions or dreams came, just a deep, never-ending darkness.

\---

  "Holmes is finally back in his confinement area." Jeanette says over dinner, "I no longer have to watch over him while also being in the same room as him."

  "How is that a problem?" John asks.

  "He's bloody terrifying. I don't know how you lasted so long alone with him." She shakes her head and takes a sip of wine.

  "Most likely because I'm amazing," he smirks and brushes his knee against Jeanette's playfully.

  Jeanette smiles and narrows her eyes, "That you are Dr. Watson, that you are."

\---

   Saturday, Jeanette leaves early to take her shift at the hospital and that morning, John goes out and buys a bouquet of flowers. He takes a cab to the hospital and strolls up to the entrance of the building that held Sherlock. He takes a deep breath and places the flowers beside his feet and pulls out his ID badge and his mobile. He presses the card against his phone for one minute before picking up the flowers and scanning the card. The scanners flashes yellow and the camera whirs and a voice comes over.

  "John?" Jeanette's voice calls out.

  John shyly scratches the back of his head and smiles, "Hey, honey. I know you're at work and you may be busy, but I missed you so much." He lifted the flowers in front of the camera, "I got you something."

  "Oh you devil, you." He can hear he laugh. "Come on in."

  The door clicks open.

  "Thanks, love."

  _Thank God._

_I'm back, Sherlock. Not much longer now._

_\---_


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH I'M SO SORRY FOR NOT UPDATING IN 500 GAZILLION YEARS!  
> But here is a late Christmas gift from Sherlock and John.  
> Thanks for reading.

  "Pleasant up here, isn't it? You don't have to worry about others, it's just you and the never-ending sky. Do you remember that once, long ago, we knew the name of every single star that graced the night sky? You could point at any dot of light and we would know the name and origin of it, didn't we Sherlock?"

  Sherlock lets the words wash over him like waves against the shoreline. He knows that he isn't asleep, he is still aware of the cot against his back and the soft buzz of the lights above, but the words ring loud and clear and seem to pull him further away from consciousness. He breathes slowly and tries to put the voice he is hearing to a face.

  "I remember that when Redbeard was still around, we would run to the top of the hill behind the estate. We would run as fast as we could for as long as our bodies could and even then we would try to push past our bodily limits. It was amazing and we felt so, so... What is the word for it?"

  Sherlock feels his lips move and answer the voice. It sounded so familiar to him. Who was it?

  "Free."

  "Ah, yes, that's the perfect word. Do you remember those days. Just us, Redbeard and our hearts to guide us."

  "Yes."

  "It was so much better then, so peaceful. No pressure from the real world, no hospital. Just the top of the hill, that was all we needed."

  "The hill."

  "Yes, Sherlock."

  "Will I ever see it again?"

  "I don't know."

  "Who are you?"

  "Sherlock Holmes."

\---

  John could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He was scared. He was going to get caught, he was going to go to jail or maybe Siberia or he'll just drop dead. Oh, Lord. No, John Watson, you need yourself out of here and back outside, you shouldn't be here. Oh, God.

  "John!" A whisper knocks John out of his thoughts and he sees Jeanette walking toward him. "Oh, honey, you're too sweet!"

  John gives the red and yellow flowers to her and kisses her cheek, "Well, it is our anniversary, so I thought I might make it special." He smiles shyly and Jeanette giggles and opens her arms to embrace him.

  "Come here you sweet thing!" Jeanette steps forward and embraces John tightly. John sighs and moves his hand up her back and brings his fingers up to press against the pressure point in her neck. It was his moment, his one chance. He felt her begin to pull away and he pressed hard against the point and she fell limp in his arms, red and yellow roses scattering across the linoleum floor.  

\---

  "Am I dead?"

  "No."

  "Then why are you here?"

  "Because I'm you, I'm always here."

  "But why are you coming to me like a vision? The voice that I can't control."

  "I'm here to explain."

  "Why? Why now?"

  "The final act is soon, sooner than we all expected."

\---

  John carried Jeanette's limp body back to her desk nearby. He sets her in the chair and lays her head on the desk so she appears to be asleep. He quickly runs back to the hall and grabs the flowers and places them next to her. The clock reads 3:58pm on the computer screen, two minutes until guard change. He presses a light kiss to Jeanette's hair and heads further into the building.

  John walks cautiously down the long corridors leading to Sherlock's room. He hears the sound of footsteps coming from Sherlock's hallway and he turns into the nearby restroom. He waits until the footsteps disappear, but instead, they grow closer.

  The footsteps were coming to the bathroom.

  John ran to the back stall and closed and locked the door. He stands on the seat of the toilet and crouches down slightly so his head and feet won't show to anyone entering the restroom. Two men enter the room, he can tell by the footsteps.

  "Thank God for the break," one says.

  "You can say that again," the other replies, "That Holmes boy may be good looking but staring at him for five hours straight can drive anyone insane."

  "Luckily he's sleeping and we have a guard shift."

  "Not, today though, remember?"

  "Oh, shit, I forgot. Mark and Thomas are on vacation right?"

  "Yes, lucky bastards."

  "God damn them. I can't believe I forgot. Just when I was having a nice day."

  "Ha. We never have nice days here. It was better over at the other facility where people are actually crazy. This guy does nothing. Bores me to bits."

  John hears silence and the sound of water running. He waits until the door closes to jump off the toilet seat and free himself from the stall. He curses and tries to think of how to get himself to Sherlock now. The guards were definitely back at their stations and his window of time is gone and he can't just waltz out now, there is no chance of who will be at the front desk now and most likely they've already found Jeanette. He sighs and leans over the sink.

  "Looks like I've failed you again Sherlock. Guess we'll both be locked up real soon." He laughs in an attempt to cheer himself up like he always used to do.

  The bathroom door opens. John doesn't have enough time to run back into the stall so he turns the water on and ducks his head in an attempt to stay hidden for a few moments longer. Luckily the man who walks in, decked out in a doctor's uniform, has his nose to stuck in his phone to notice John and heads directly to the urinal. John turns off the water and dries his hands and stares at the man's back as he pisses. The man finishes and turns around and gives a polite nod to John. John nods back and continues to dry his hands and stares at the man out of the corner of his eye.

  The man turns off the tap and dries his hands on a paper towel and turns to face the doorway, pulling out his mobile. John steps forward into the man's space, heart pounding in his chest like a hammer. This is his chance, now or never. He plucks the mobile out the doctor's hand.

  "What-"

  "Excuse me, can I speak to you a moment about our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ?"

  John punches the doctor in one swift movement, knocking him to the ground.

\---

  "The final act? You mean my death?"

  "Yes."

  "Why does this matter now? We, whoever the hell 'we' is, knows that I'm going to die and not from old age. Why are you here now?"

  "Because the final act can't be complete without the tragic scene. The star crossed lovers coming together before the end and the crowd cheers before the onslaught of tears."

  " _John_."

  "Yes, John. Oh, yes."

  "John. He's here?"

  "He will be. Very soon."

\---

  In less than five minutes John became Doctor Chase Lectern and strutted out of the restroom, lie thoroughly thought out, planned, and tucked away up his metaphorical sleeve. Based on how the real Doctor Lectern looked, and based on how the contents of his thankfully unlocked mobile, the Doctor was a very outgoing man with many friends among the staff here. John took a deep breath and headed down the hallway where Sherlock's room would be and was immediately stopped by guards.

  "Guys, guys you have to come quick! Someone hurt Jeanette!" John waved his arms about frantically, "She's passed out and her pulse is weak and she's bleeding." The guards tense at the mention of blood and their hands fly to the guns at their hips. "I've managed to stop the bleeding but I think the attacker is still in the building, please help!"

  The guards both nodded and one reached out to touch his shoulder, "Don't worry doc, just get somewhere safe and take Jeanette with you and we'll lock down the place and look for him." The guard start for the front desk and John follows for a few feet until they take a turn and John turns back and bolts for Sherlock's room.

  He gets to the guard station and after hitting a few buttons he managed to unlock Sherlock's cell and he pulls open the door and feels the satisfying rush of cool air hit his face.

\---

  "The final act is coming, Sherlock, and you need to accept it. Don't fight it."

  "Why would I fight the inevitable?"

  "Human error."

\---

   John steps quietly into Sherlock's room and closes the door behind him. He looks over the room to find it looking exactly the same way it did the first day he walked into it with Mycroft all those months ago. His eyes finally land on the bed to find Sherlock curled up, fast asleep. His lips curl up into a smile and he nearly floats over to Sherlock's side. Kneeling, he can see the calm beauty of Sherlock's face. The full lips, sharp cheekbones, and curly hair falling playfully over his forehead. Carefully, he runs his fingers through Sherlock's hair until his kaleidoscope flicker open to look at his own.

  "Hello there."

  "John?" Sherlock breathes.

  "Yes, it's me." John spreads his arms, "In the flesh."

  "My God. This can't be true." Sherlock sits up in his cot, eyes wide in disbelief.

  "Well, I'm not supposed to be here."

  "But, Jeanette and your life and... why are you here you idiot?"

  "Because you can't keep me away. Nothing can. Not anymore."

\---

  At this moment, Sherlock realized why people were insane. It was this feeling. The feeling that you can fly, that you are worth more to a person than just a paycheck or a small conversation before their life begins. He was more to John Watson than a patient. More than a friend.

  He was the air that filled John's lungs. The blood that flowed from his heart to his fingertips. The thoughts that polluted his mind.

  And John was the same to him.

  This was the final act, the star-crossed lovers.

  This was their end.

\---

  Sherlock threw himself into John's open arms and pressed his cold, dry lips to John's soft, warm ones. The world seemed to stop along with all his thoughts. All he knew was John, the way he smelled, the way his lips moved, the tightness of John's arms around his slim torso. It was like he was floating.

  John pulled away all too soon, "Sherlock, they are going to find us. I'm not as clever as you and I could barely make it in, so I doubt we are going to get out but I want to tell you one thing-"

  Sherlock put a finger over his lips, "Don't, please don't."

  John faltered and then he nodded, "Of course. Let's just wait, here. Until they come."

  Sherlock nodded numbly.

  _Yes, let us wait._  Sherlock grips John's hand as the sit on the cot, the voice ringing through his head.

  _Let us wait, Sherlock, the final act is commencing._ Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and in turn squeezed John's hand.

  "Sherlock are you okay?" John's sweet voice rang out and he turned to face him.

  _Oh my God._

John wasn't there anymore, it was his visions. Their bodies flashed in John's place, speaking all at once. The chaos that he had lived with for months now crashing together and pulling him apart.

  _Poor little unloved Sherlock. No one is going to help you now you insane child._

_The hounds Mr. Holmes. Do you understand me now? You hide yourself from the truth and then it comes back to bite you in the end. You can never hide from the non-existent._

_All the world in my hand. Your life too, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, how that name would look in ruins. Insane detective kills all that he cares for._

_Sherlock. SHERLOCK. SNAP OUT OF IT PLEASE. THINK OF-_

_Ah, Sherlock, darling. It's about time you decided to join me. Think of all the fun we can have. No boredom, no more stupid people. Just you and me against the world, though that's not really fair, but who cares about fair when you are having fun._

The door to Sherlock's cell bursts open and guards stream in, guns drawn, voices loud. "Sherlock Holmes, put your hands in the air and get on your knees."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY FOR NOT UPDATING!!  
> but i'm back...hi.

    There is a man who sits on the other end of Sherlock's dimly lit room and fades in and out of his vision. Sherlock knows who he is, but longs to forget. He screams at him, telling him to go away. The man never responds and though that should give Sherlock a sense of comfort it also feels like a knife being stabbed into his chest.

  He's never felt a pain like this before.                          

  And he envies the man who is sitting again across the room from him because he knows that he won't be feeling pain anymore.

  Because he is dead.

  John is dead.

\---

_15 days, 7 hours, 36 minutes, and 12 seconds earlier_

  Sherlock's eyes are burning, trying to find John's face in the jumble of visions that are assaulting his sight. He hears John's voice ring out above the chaos of the dead speaking to him, but he can't seem to hold onto the sound long enough for it to make sense. He forces himself not to close his eyes and instead reaches for John. He feels his cold hands in John's and squeezes them, expecting John's warm response, but instead feels the warmth leave him and John's voice call out to him.

  "SHERLOCK!"

  John's voice seems to shatter the chaos and all the visions fall away and all that is left is John.

  John's blue eyes searching his face for understanding. His blonde hair disheveled. His arms being grabbed by the guards and being dragged out of the room...

  Sherlock is up and on his feet in an instant, an emotion pulsing through him, something he couldn't fully put a name to. It was like watching the sunset. That rush of beauty and happiness but as it sets you can't help but feel empty and lonely and you wish you just...just pause it 's movement so you don't have to be alone in the dark. So you don't have to live without it.

  John is his happiness.

  And his is being taken away.

\---

  "Why do you just sit there?"

  "Why don't you answer me?"

  "I'm sorry. I've said it so many times."

  "Please speak to me John."

  "You are the only one who comes to me anymore."

  "John."

  "LEAVE! LEAVE ME! GO BACK TO BEING ALIVE! STOP BEING DEAD!"

\---

  Sherlock runs forward, a thousand feelings rushing through his mind. He hears the guards shout for him to stop, to stand down, but he ignores them. All he can see is John, John, John...

  Moriarty.

  "Hello there, dear. It's nice to see you. Oh, please don't squeeze too hard, Westwood, you know."

  Sherlock's vision turns red, a bloody, messy, triple homicide color. Moriarty's greasy smirk makes his insides churn. He squeezes his hands harder around his biceps and with all his force, slams him head-first into the nearest wall.

  His blood leaves a trail down the white wall. His body slides down and crumples into an ungraceful pile of blond hair, tan skin...

  "Oh my god.." Sherlock falls to his knees and stares holes into the body that lies in front of him.

  The body of John Hamish Watson.

  The man he just killed.

\---

  "I DIDN'T MEAN TO HURT YOU! I LOVED YOU FOR GOD'S SAKE!"

  "WAKE UP! DON'T BE DEAD!"

  "THE WORLD NEEDS A JOHN WATSON."

\---

  "How is he doing?" Molly asks quietly. The cafe is crowded but she keeps her voice low.

  After a long silence and another swallow of tea Mycroft answers, "He tried to kill himself 10 times in the last month, nearly succeed yesterday."

  Molly sets down her tea cup after noticing that her hand began to tremble. She stares down at her lap, not knowing what to say.

  "How is John?"

  Molly looks up. "I thought you would know."

  "I do."

  "He's doing much better. They say he should be out within the month."

  "What was the last thing he remembered?"

  Molly chokes on her tea. "I-"

  "You didn't know?" Molly shakes her head. "He lost most of his memory. He remembered everything up until he became Sherlock's doctor. I find that quite convenient."

  Molly fiddles with her napkin, "Looks like you won't have to do your governmental brain washing won't you?"

  Mycroft forces a smile, "No, I won't."

\---

_7 years later_

  "Oi! Excuse you!"

  Sherlock Homes is knocked out of his train of thought by a familiar voice that he can't place. He looks down to see a short blonde man inches away from him. He scans his face, trying to remember him. He knows that he once knew him. Think...

  John Watson.

  "John Watson?" The shorter man's eyes widen in surprise. "Is that you? I'm Sherlock Holmes, do you happen to remember me?"

  "No, I'm sorry I don't. How do you know me?" John looks up at Sherlock in awe.

  "Oh," Sherlock says, disappointed. The vision of his John had disappeared long ago and he had begun his search for John Hamish Watson, Fifth Northumberland  Fusiliers, veteran of Bart's hospital. "Well, a man in Bart's mentioned you and I was wondering if you could help me with a case."

  "Was it Mike, Mike Stamford?"

  Sherlock brightens, he knew that man, "Yes!"

  John laughs, "What a bastard. I told him that I didn't need a new job, but look what he does. Sends a bloody flag pole to come whisk me off and fight crime."

  Sherlock feels himself smile, "Oh no, you've caught me. Looks like my plan has been foiled."

  John laughs again, a warm sound that Sherlock remembers from years ago.

  Even if this isn't his John, this one will do just fine.

\---

  It took a day for John to decide to move into 221B Baker Street with Sherlock and a little over a year for them to stumble into their flat, high off adrenaline, and become more than friends. It takes John less than a month after that to tell Sherlock that he loves him and three months after that to tell Sherlock about the accident.

  The accident that left him without a portion of his memories, except one.

  The eyes of his last patient. A patient at a mental hospital.

  One night, as John lay in Sherlock's arms he tells him.

  "How do you remember that? What do they look like?"

  "Well, that's easy. His eyes look exactly like yours."

  At that moment Sherlock knew, he knew.

  He never told John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have reached the end of this story. I am thinking about rewriting this, adding more plot, writing my romantic parts 10x better and so on. But you never know.   
> Thank you for sticking around and reading and commenting and leaving kudos. You guys just always make my day when I see those. :)   
> Thanks

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. :)


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